


All That Came Before

by Hummingbird_3419



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 8x01 Reunion, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-01-23 07:13:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18544867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hummingbird_3419/pseuds/Hummingbird_3419
Summary: 8x01 reunion piece. Sandor has made it to Winterfell to continue the fight against the Whitewalkers. Sansa is Lady of Winterfell, but when she sees a figure from her past, things become more complicated.





	1. Sansa | The Greeting

The two mighty beasts flew ahead, Sansa felt the course wind that their wings left behind as they soared into the air, making their presence known. If the company arriving from the south wasn’t enough to boast power, the dragons were enough to signify ultimate strength.

The day was cold, as all the other days had been, but Sansa thought it was milder than before. Perhaps her mind was playing tricks on her, as she knew that with every day that arrived, more snow would come, and icicles that hadn’t been there the night before appeared on the beams surrounding the bailey. Sansa’s hands, although covered with her thick, leather gloves, felt the effect of the winter as she had placed them on the stone ledge, overseeing the arrival of Jon and his men.

As Sansa took the steps down to meet with the others in the bailey, a few Stark guards following her footsteps, her heart started beating. A beat ensued of which she couldn’t ignore, the number of ravens that had been sent since Jon’s leave hadn’t been enough to soothe her worry for him. There was no need for a raven in that moment, as Jon was there, on his steed, with the Queen next to him.

The Queen’s flash of white hair had stood out from the northerner’s that had surrounded her, as well of her own armies. The darker skinned men clearly weren’t close to kin of the Queen, she seemed to be the only light-haired head for miles, apart from her Sworn Shield Brienne. But Sansa liked Brienne.

As the group of people standing in the bailey came into view, Sansa wondered if she was being too harsh on someone she hadn’t met before, but she was starkly reminded that out of everything that had happened when Jon had been away, he had bent the knee to her. Jon was no longer King of the North, and with a title that meant so much to the northerners, to Sansa, she couldn’t imagine what kind of ruler, what kind of person, the Queen was to have so much influence over a man that was so loved by his people. Sansa knew that the Stark banner men would not take the kneel with a pinch of salt, that problems would and could arise because of it. All Sansa wanted to know was how much of an enabler the Queen was to change her brother.

Sansa took her place next to Bran, and smiled to herself when she couldn’t see that Arya had managed to make an appearance. Of course, it was like her to be scarce with such an important arrival, and a part of Sansa wished that she could disappear as well. Either find a perch at the top of Winterfell to down upon, or a place with the common folk to act as if she was just one of them, looking at the convey with awe, but would also have her anonymity.

However, that wasn’t meant to be, so Sansa watched the open gates like a hawk, and the white head of hair that she had spotted from the battlements appeared, alongside her brother. Sansa watched as they rode together, seemingly as equals, but she felt that it wasn’t truly the case. Both of them had dour looks on their faces, but when Jon flicked his eyes over to Sansa, his expression lightened to one of relief. It was when Jon laid his eyes on his sister that he knew he was home.

Sansa watched as Jon dismounted his horse without assistance, and like she thought he would, paced over to Bran. Sansa averted her eyes at the reunion, knowing how special it would’ve been for Jon to experience it on his own, but she daren’t look up to the Queen meanwhile. Sansa kept her eyes down, to the muddy ground.

‘Look at you.’ Sansa heard Jon say. ‘You’re a man.’

‘Almost.’ Bran quipped back, in the deadpan lilt of his voice that became so normal for Sansa to hear. It was then that Sansa looked over, seeing the way Jon’s features changed after realising how their brother had turned out after their many years apart.

It was then Sansa’s turn for an embrace with Jon, one she welcomed with open arms. After having gone years without seeing all of her siblings, Sansa felt that she treasured them more than ever. However, as Sansa brought Jon in close, she couldn’t help but see the Queen over his shoulder, standing in her white fur, clearly making a statement to all around her.

With Sansa’s eyes still on the Queen, Jon released Sansa from his grip and asked, ‘Where’s Arya?’, his voice gruff and dry from the travel.

Sansa replied, quick as a heartbeat, ‘Lurking, somewhere.’

As obvious as Sansa had made it, Jon followed her gaze over his shoulder and to the Queen. The Queen, in turn, began walking the few paces between them, closing the gap.

‘Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen.’ Jon gestured with his arm out to the Queen, and with the next breath said, ‘My sister, Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell.’

‘Thank you for inviting us into your home, Lady Stark. The north is as beautiful as your brother claimed. As are you.’

Sansa heard the Queen’s first words, and although she had never met her before, the particular smile she gave rubbed her the wrong way. The dimples that appeared when Daenerys smiled weren’t sweet enough to fool Sansa, a quick thought had her wondering if they were the reason why Jon bent the knee. Sansa couldn’t help but look down and up Daenerys’ form.

‘Winterfell is yours, your Grace.’

Sansa could remember her father uttering those words to a king bygone though time. She daren’t think about what kind of girl she had been back then, solely caring about the Royal arrival for one purpose, a particular Prince that Sansa tried to never think about again. Even as she stood there, Lady of Winterfell, a decree bestowed upon her with reluctance and honour, she felt smaller than her name. No matter what she had experienced in her twenty years, even standing taller than the Queen herself, Sansa knew her place.

The way the Queen tilted her head made it clear to Sansa that it was a quip she was not expecting, but the moment wasn’t to last.

‘We don’t have time for all this, the Night King has your dragon, he’s one of them now. The Wall has fallen, the Dead march south.’

Sansa watched as the Queen’s face fell, to hear of one of her beloved dragons being used by the Dead, and that was a great concern. If anything, the fear seemed to only increase, like their days were truly numbered.

‘I think we better have a meeting.’ Jon said, and Daenerys nodded sharply, looking behind to the men she had previously been standing with. The two men weren’t recognisable for Sansa, but they seemed compliant in approaching the Queen, and then a third man began to close the distance between the carriage and the Queen. Her first husband, Tyrion Lannister, looking older than Sansa could remember, was dressed in black, and had an even darker look on his features.

There was no time for a happy reunion, not that Sansa could think of a reason for anyone to be more than mildly content at that moment, so she only shared a quick glance of recognition with the Imp. He, in turn, nodded his head her way, but for everyone standing in the small group, there was so much more to say.

Lord Royce began ordering the various Lords to disperse from the bailey, a meeting was to be held in the Great Hall, but Sansa, rather than following the order, watched as everyone else made their way inside. To her right, the gates were filled again with more with more steeds making their way into the bailey. Sansa watched for a moment, but felt her heart leap to her throat when a man, a man bigger than any other man, entered through the gates of Winterfell.

The Hound, the King’s loyal dog, but the first thought Sansa had was Sandor. In all the time that Sansa had known him in King’s Landing, he seemed much cleaner, so much healthier, riding the horse with a straight back and expressionless features, especially compared with the night that she had last seen him.

Sandor had wanted to take her away from the Lion’s den, to take her to the very place they were standing in, but she had refused; somehow convinced that she was safer with the Lannister's than she was with Joffrey’s sworn shield. He had then reeled off that everyone alive and worth knowing was a killer, another one of his harsh lessons, spoken quickly whilst there was a battle ablaze just outside the bedroom.

‘No, little bird, I won’t hurt you.’

The last words he had ever spoken to her, and they seemed so fresh in her mind, like he was actually speaking them in that moment, but when Sansa looked to Sandor’s lips, they remained tight shut. His lips, to that day, Sansa remembered the way they felt on her own. His burned skin was tight, and he tasted like strong wine, but Sansa couldn’t hate him for it. Sandor had been one of the rare, kind people in King’s Landing.

Sansa doubted that Sandor would remember that time just as she did, she supposed for most of it, he was inebriated with Dornish wine and mostly blinded by anger. Although she tried to see it, watching Sandor’s expression as his steed came to a halt, not his usual steed Stranger, but there didn’t seem to be any anger set in his features.

Sandor dismounted his horse, taking the leather reins into his own hands before passing them over to a stable hand, a boy half the size of Sandor, and one who knew that meant something. The boy approached slowly, weary of the man that he was to attend, but Sandor didn’t sneer or bark at him, nothing was said as he brought the leather reins into the boy’s smaller grip.

‘Sansa, will you join us?’ Jon’s voice echoed through Sansa’s mind, and only a few moments after did she realise that she hadn’t imagined those words. She turned to see her brother waiting for her to respond, and luckily for her, not taking the initiative to follow her eye line like before.

‘Yes, of course, brother.’ Sansa said. However, she waited a beat after her brother paced forward to join the Queen in walking to the Great Hall, and she looked over once more to him.

Sansa was startled once again, as her quick look back had caught her out. He was staring at her, people moved around his frame to get where they needed to go, but he was stock still amongst the movement. It wouldn’t have been appropriate to go over to him, although Sansa felt her body begin to move that way. His brown eyes lay heavy with something Sansa couldn’t quite make out, like they had both seen ghosts from their pasts, ones they were perhaps convinced in not seeing ever again.

‘My Lady, the Lord's await your arrival.’ Sansa’s sworn shield, Brienne of Tarth, announced behind her, and Sansa knew she had been found out. Despite this, Sansa also knew that without question, Brienne would keep it to herself, as it had only been a look with another person, nothing more than that.

Sansa turned and gave a small smile to her sworn shield, but a quick look to Brienne’s face and Sansa knew that there was more to be said. But out in the bailey, with many northern Lord’s awaiting the Lady of Winterfell, the timing wasn’t right, and Sansa didn’t know if Brienne would be the person with the soft ear to hear all that she had felt when she looked upon Sandor Clegane.

\-----

To Sansa’s surprise, Sandor didn’t stand in on the meeting. She was sure that he wasn’t considered a Lord amongst the people he arrived with, nor did the northern Lords who attended the meeting as well. However, in Sansa’s mind, she felt that Sandor deserved to have a say in the proceedings against the White Walker’s, as he had been the one to join her brother beyond the Wall. It was another thought in Sansa’s mind, thinking that Sandor had seen and fought against the Dead, and how that must’ve tormented his mind. It wouldn’t have been seen on his expression, Sandor never gave anything away if it meant he seemed a weaker man, but Sansa was curious.

The meeting was one that left more questions unanswered than going into it, especially with the dragons. Targaryen dragons weren’t a weapon that eased Sansa’s conscious, and with the Queen so flippant about their eating habits, a matter so close to Sansa’s mind, it left her weary.

‘Whatever they want.’

As if a Queen could quash all political and moral arguments with an unjustified response. No matter how angry it made Sansa, she couldn’t be the person in the room that lost control, but it took all her might not to.

The issue of food supply was something Sansa had been overseeing since she began her role as Lady of Winterfell. To have Winter approaching, food had become a valuable resource, and she felt that within time, when snow swept across the landscape and forbade anyone in seeing more than ten paces in front of their faces, it could become more valuable than any polished gem or golden coin.

Sansa could remember just what effect food had on people. The Bread Riots, the stuffy streets of King’s Landing, the power of the people when faced with starvation, that’s what the common folk where forced to when left with no other option. Not one to relegating herself to having the worst of everything, but Sansa felt that she had experienced the worst that day. Those men, stinking, dirty, hungry men, that didn’t want food in a quick flash of judgement, but her.

The Lords residing in the Great Hall were dispersing, and like Sansa had out in the bailey, she watched them part. No one would question a Lady of her House watching her banner man leave her company, and that led Sansa to recollect how the Bread Riots ended.

He had been there. Either he had heard her screams, or he had followed the violently lustful men, but he had been there, and he saved her. Like a small sack of potatoes, Sandor had thrown Sansa over his shoulder like she weighed nothing to him, but his action in saving her clearly showed that she meant something to him. She had been his little bird, and what Sansa would have given in that moment to hear him utter those words to her again.


	2. Sansa | The Feast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 8x01 reunion piece. Sandor has made it to Winterfell to continue the fight against the Whitewalkers. Sansa is Lady of Winterfell, but when she sees a figure from her past, things become more complicated.

There was too much work on, Sansa felt that she was being pulled every which way. It was nice when the work filled her day, like she felt she was achieving everything that was put in front of her. However, with impending ravens that would signal just how many northern Lords would continue to pledge their allegiance to Winterfell, meant that even at the end of the day, Sansa was fretting still.

Sansa was in her chambers, her old rooms as they had been when she was a child, where she felt safe. She had been attended to by her handmaiden, Caroline Cerwyn, one of the many daughters in the longline of that household, and she was waiting for Brienne to arrive at her door and escort her to the feast. It wasn’t going to be a feast of any kind, there was no instance that Sansa would’ve used the best food available for herself, and she knew that her brother would be of that mind as well. It would’ve been interesting to see how the Queen would take to the fair spread that had been prepared, there were no grand statements of suckling pig, or a plethora of different wines to please her Grace. Although Sansa was keen to see her reaction, it may have ended up not being worth the hassle.

To regain her mind, Sansa stood from her dark oak dresser and walked to her tall looking glass. Her garments were similar to what she had worn in the day, dark, thick fabrics that kept every inch of skin hidden from the night’s frost. The black broadcloth lay somewhat heavy on Sansa’s body, but it was a shade lighter than what her cloak would’ve felt like resting on her shoulders. There was no need for a cloak in Winterfell, not with the ancient thermal waters heating the stones around her. The Stark sigil was sewn across her chest, something Sansa had seen to herself, it was done with great pride.

Sansa walked around with her sigil in her chest with pride, and she felt that it meant even more with the Targaryen Queen sitting at the high table with her that evening. However, that wasn’t the only thing she was concerned about that evening. Having not appeared at the meeting with the Lord’s, Sansa thought that Sandor would have to make an appearance at dinner. He needed to eat, but Sansa wasn’t too sure if he was too humble or secretive to eat in his room, and with her fingernail, picked the skin of her hand in anticipation of it.

It wasn’t as if Sansa would find the time to talk to him if he ended up being there, she imagined that he’d sit amongst the banner men, in a corner where his height or facial scar wouldn’t become a matter of conversation from the people around him. Sansa wondered if they still called him the dreaded nickname, and reminded herself to keep a sharp ear out for it that night. No matter what he had been since his time in King’s Landing, Sansa felt that he wasn’t worthy of that moniker anymore.

Sansa remembered the way his eyes felt against her when he looked her way in the bailey. They weren’t marred with alcohol, nor rage from those around him. Sansa dared to think that they looked softer, wisened with his age, but it was something that she needed to see up close, not from many paces away.

As she waited away, Brienne still not having knocked on her door, Sansa felt frenzied with the thought that Sandor could’ve been sat with the men in the Great Hall already. All she needed to soothe her frayed nerves was to know that he felt comfortable to show his face amongst the northern men, that his confidence hadn’t waned with the trip north. That he felt comfortable amongst her people, in her home. The time came eventually, with a sudden rap at the door, and Sansa stopped paces the stone floors of the bedroom.

‘My Lady.’ Brienne stated as Sansa’s body appeared behind the solid oak door. Sansa bowed her head slightly, and they took off without a word to one another. The night was cold, as the previous nights had been, and Sansa felt chills run down her spine, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, but it wasn’t from the frost that was settling in the late hours of the night. The cold chill was replaced by rapid heat, the change from the drafty corridors to the wall of heat the Great Hall gave off ceased the chill that spiked Sansa’s body.

No one had taken their seats yet, even with Jon and Daenerys sitting at the high table. Sansa kept her appearance light, her eyes swept over those who sat at the table. First, her brother, still in his chair and staring out at the men in front of him, not bothering to look her way. Then her sister, it had been the first time Sansa had seen her all day, and Sansa couldn’t let Arya miss out of a welcome feast, no matter how much she wanted to. Sansa then looked to her brother, who was watching her arrival avidly, and through his beard, Sansa could see a small smirk, one that she mirrored back for a moment. Daenerys only glanced over for a short moment, but that wasn’t a concern of Sansa’s. Lastly, the Hand of the Queen, Tyrion nodded his head just once to welcome her. They had spoken briefly with one another earlier that day, and it left more to be desired, but the feast wasn’t a time for political back and forth, even if the food was too common to take everyone’s attention.

Sansa settled herself next to Jon, he sat to her left, with Arya to her right. As Lady of Winterfell, she was the one who had to greet everyone in the room, and she did at her post at the high table.

‘Welcome and thank you, Lord’s and Lady’s, who have come and introduced the Queen to Winterfell. Please drink and eat till you are contented.’ Sansa turned her body slightly to the left to address Daenerys, who remained seated. ‘It is not only my hope, but the Stark banner men’s hope that the feast is to your liking, your Grace.’

Daenerys’ expression lightened and she gave a small nod, one that pleased Sansa to see. Before Sansa could order everyone to sit down and start their meal, Daenerys turned her body forward and stood from her seat.

‘I thank you, Lady Sansa, and everyone who eat with me this night. It is a great honour to be welcomed so warmly in the north. Please, may you all sit and begin the feast!’

Daenerys signed off her speech with another smile, and Sansa recognised it to be the same she had given her that morning, when she complimented Winterfell and herself. As the many banner men in front of them took their seats, Daenerys and Sansa looked to one another, each bowing their heads slightly, and they in turn took their seats as well.

Before tucking into her own plate of fair, one of kidney and plum pie and mutton stew, Sansa looked up to the crowd in front of her. Their seemed to be a lively chatter across the room, no one was too scared to speak up and enjoy the evening even with the Queen watching over them. It was how a feast should’ve been, men sharing their stories of their houses or of previous battles, some daring to sour the mood with the impending threat of the north, other’s clinking their jugs of mead together in cheers. Sansa remembered how she had asked the mead to be watered down, not only so it could’ve been spared, but also so the men didn’t become inebriated from drinking too many cups. The wine was watered down as well, only a few barrels of the finest Arbour gold were left, and Sansa didn’t think the Queen in all her finery would be content in a draught of mead with her dinner.

The pie had been sliced and placed on Sansa’s plate, accompanied with boiled potatoes, and she looked down hungrily at it. She had asked the kitchen’s that only one meat be served in the pie, more than two meats would’ve been considered wasteful, and it was packed out with stewed plums to make the kidneys taste a little sweeter. It wasn’t the most extravagant dish that had been served in Winterfell, but Sansa knew that no one would complain about it.

Before Sansa took her first mouthful, however, she gazed up and over the heads of the many men in the room. She had been looking for someone in particular, but what had caught her eye was a figure that seemed to be standing up still, not having taken their seat. It had only been in the corner of her eye, and when Sansa flicked her eyes to see it, her subconscious had done the finding for her. The figure wasn’t standing like she had thought, it was due to Sandor’s great height that even when sitting, he seemed to be the height of a regular man.

Sandor sat amongst many other men, but was not engaging in much conversation with those around him. Sansa watched as he tucked into the meal, and noticed how he did everything so methodically. He took a few bites of the bites, a few spoonful’s of the mutton stew, then drank his mead. Every so often, he would take a crust of bread and dip it into his stew, and it fascinated Sansa to no end. She had started eating her own meal, but every so often stole glances his way, in-between words with her sister or brother, so see if he was continuing his pattern of eating.

‘We still haven’t heard from House Glover, hopefully we shall receive a raven on the morrow or the day after.’ Sansa said, answering Jon’s question. It had been one of the few that had been directed Sansa’s way, and along with glancing over at Sandor, she had noticed that most of Jon’s attention had been focused on the Queen and her Hand. In that instance, Sansa was not concerned by it.

Arya was never one to talk much at mealtimes, not with Bran to accompany her, and when Sansa turned her attentions to see why she had been so quiet that evening, she followed her gaze over to a table near them. A man, distinctive by his shaven head and youthful looks, often turned his gaze over to the high table, but not to gawk at the Queen like the others did. Sansa kept her body still, pretending that her interests lay in what she was eating from her plate, but glanced up every now and then when she sensed that the young man was looking their way. There was no chance at being caught by either of them, when they looked eyes on one another, it seemed that no one else around them mattered. They shared smirks, and Sansa even caught the young man daring to wink at Arya, she heard her sister stifle a laugh, and Sansa remained to appear uninterested. It was a matter that would have to be brought up soon enough, Sansa would make sure that her sister wasn’t carrying Needle when that happened.

It had been some time in which Sansa had last looked up to Sandor at the back of the room. She had answered a few more of Jon’s questions, engaging in her brother, the Queen and her Hand at one point, and she felt that it had been overdue in watching him. Sansa shouldn’t have been surprised in Sandor doing so, but when she looked up, he was watching her. Like she had never been gazed upon by him before, Sansa’s heart leaped into her throat, the gulp of wine was swallowed painfully as she tried to suppress a cough. She hoped that he hadn’t noticed her mishap, and the distance between them seemed to cover any notice of it.

The Great Hall was so warm that evening, it hadn’t been filled so readily since Sansa’s arrival, but it felt that she was the only one there, with Sandor seemingly so far away from her. The scars on Sandor’s face were gnarled in the light of the fires around them, the flickering of the flames danced against his face, making him seem more alive than his stoic body did. More than ever, Sansa wanted to call out to him, to say his name with her voice, not her thoughts, to acknowledge him to the room, but mostly to herself. As much as she wanted Sandor to say her name, to call her the silly nickname, she wanted to speak with him. That way, his presence at Winterfell would’ve been made true, to confirm that he wasn’t a figment of her imagination.

Sandor looked so welcoming in the orange light of the Great Hall, he had never looked so in King’s Landing, the harsh sun would wash out his features in the day time, and the cool light of the corridors would only make him seem menacing if he was passed by. Sansa wanted to see him up close, to gaze upon his features, but she laughed to herself, there was no chance of that happening. Still, Sansa daren’t be the one to look away first, to give in to the kind of stare he was trying to pursue.

A sudden thought crossed Sansa’s mind, what if Sandor was trying to scare her? What if he still had some Hound blood inside him, ready to turn and frighten those who looked upon him for too long? What if her staring just made him uncomfortable? Sansa didn’t want to be the one to make Sandor feel uneasy, she was the Lady of Winterfell, it was her duty to greet and welcome all those who passed the gates, if they were friend’s, not foe’s.

A sharp nudge to her arm made Sansa’s blink hard, her gaze torn from Sandor’s as she looked to Arya, the one who had hurt her suddenly.

‘Who are you staring at?’ Arya asked. Sansa’s eyes went wide for a moment, but she refused to give herself away by looking back at Sandor.

‘I could ask you the same question.’ Sansa raised her brows, and her body relaxed when Arya looked just as guilty as she had. The question remained unanswered, both sisters went back to their plates, though no food was left on either. When Sansa felt that Arya was distracted by the man in her sights, she looked up to find hers.

Disappointment drew in when Sansa could no longer see Sandor sitting in the hall, a quick glance over the heads of the other men signified to her that he had disappeared. She swallowed thickly, flicked her eyes over to Arya to see if she noticed, but there was no bother from her sister again that evening. Sansa wondered if it was due to her staring that had caused him to flee, she had given him reason to abandon the camaraderie of the hall and see to his own devices. If that were true, Sansa wondered if she were to ever be alone with him in Winterfell, if at every moment she were to lay her eyes on him, he’d vanish.


	3. Sansa | The Cloak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 8x01 reunion piece. Sandor has made it to Winterfell to continue the fight against the Whitewalkers. Sansa is Lady of Winterfell, but when she sees a figure from her past, things become more complicated.

The feast lasted well into the evening, there was no dampening of the spirits, even when the Dead were marching south for them. However, the day had been a long one, for greeting family and meeting royalty, Sansa was ready for bed when she had finished her second cup of watered wine. Despite wanting to retreat so early in the evening, Brienne had no qualms in escorting Sansa back to her rooms.

Before Sansa left, she had to say her pleasantries to the Queen first. Daenerys was still in conversation with Jon and Tyrion, but Sansa wasn’t going to wait for her turn to talk like a little girl, she stood up from her seat and approached the Queen.

‘Your Grace, I leave you in good company, but I am retiring and saying good night.’ Sansa reeled off her words like they were nothing, she excelled in her pleasantries like usual, something she was proud of. The Queen was also well-versed in her words, saying good night in a way Sansa could recognise as being polite. For good measure, Sansa offered a small smile and a nod of the head to leave with Daenerys, and wondered if they were to always exchange such sweet and hollow words for the time they were to live together in Winterfell. It was a chore Sansa could bare, but she felt that Daenerys had more in her that chirpy courtships.

Sansa left the Great Hall with Brienne in tow, and as they walked through the cold corridors of the keep, Sansa felt comfortable to make small talk.

‘How do you think the Queen enjoyed the feast?’ Any question could’ve been asked to Brienne, and the same type of answer would come from her. Never to upset the applecart, Brienne took a moment to think of her answer, not one to reply so hastily to a loaded comment.

‘I think the Queen enjoyed herself, she had good company and decent food.’

Sansa huffed a breath from her nose, that was the subject she had been leaning towards in her comment. Sansa knew that Brienne would never talk behind her back, so she didn’t think twice in talking about her opinions in a more open manner than with anyone else.

‘The food was what I was worried about.’ Sansa stated. ‘If the dragons can eat whatever they want, what would their mother feast upon?'

The question was rhetorical, but Sansa had made her point. She turned to see Brienne’s reaction to the slight, but her features gave nothing away, as it wasn’t her place to talk as freely as Sansa had. Besides, they weren’t in the privacy of a secluded room, Brienne would’ve never forgiven herself if someone had overheard her talking out of turn on a matter as important as the Queen.

When they reached Sansa’s door, no mention of her comment was made, and Brienne left by saying she send for her handmaiden to help her get ready for bed. Although Brienne was the kind of person that was good for keeping secrets and being loyal in any information, she wasn’t the type to share her own opinion. It was frustrating that Sansa couldn’t truly relieve her thoughts onto anyone.

The fireplace was still alight when Sansa entered her chambers, it produced a glow that reminded her of the Great Hall, and how Sandor’s features had appeared in it. What seemed such a simple thing, the light a fire created, but it brought back memories of him. They were recent memories too, it had only been in the previous hour that Sansa had gazed upon Sandor, but there was one thing in her chambers that held even deeper and older memories of Sandor.

Caroline had hurried to Sansa’s chambers, she had barely taken a seat at the window before Caroline had announced herself. It was good timing as well, as Sansa thought she was about to open up her large, locked chest, and would’ve been mortified if anyone had seen its contents.

Sansa wasn’t in the mood to make idle chit-chat with Caroline, and luckily her handmaiden sensed this. Sansa liked that she was thorough in her work, never to miss a frayed end of a cloak, or tear in her socks, she kept everything neat and tidy, as it should have been for the Lady of Winterfell. Caroline could tell when Sansa was tired, which urged her to work quickly and quietly, or could tell if Sansa was in a cheerier mood, in which Caroline would ask questions and keep her mind occupied. That evening, Sansa couldn’t hide the slight darkness under her eyes, the day had taken its toll on her, so Caroline untied the laces of her dress, easing it off of her body and placing it neatly to the side. The bodice tied around Sansa’s waist was released from her, and she felt all the better for it.

Not wanting to keep another person in the room for very long, Sansa sat at her dresser as Caroline attended to her outfit, and she began to unpin her hair. There wasn’t much need to have her hair in an extravagant style anymore, Sansa wasn’t interested in having it fashioned like it had been when she was in King’s Landing, nor when she was Alayne Stone, the simpler the better, especially with the chill that would affect her ears if she had them on show.

Sansa took off her shift and replaced it with her nightgown, a thick, cotton material that held in all the warmth. Knowing that Caroline had just left, Sansa paced over to the door to lock it herself. This wasn’t something she practised on a regular basis, there was no need to, and Brienne had made her feelings known on a lock door, but that night was different.

When Sansa was sure that no man alive would make it through her door, she turned and steadied her eyes on the chest at the end of her bed, one that she had the only key to. Sansa had already placed the key on her dresser, it resided in one of the drawers, hardly a secretive place, but no one around had a need to see inside it, so Sansa wasn’t worried about it being found. Sansa dared to look away from the chest as she walked back over to the dresser to take the key into her hands. The metal was cold, Sansa held it with her thumb and forefinger so she wouldn’t freeze her hand.

Once Sansa was in front of the chest, she looked down at it, not quite ready to open the lid. What was in that chest had been a keepsake of great value to her, but it hadn’t been until that day that Sansa felt she could hold it in her hands. When there was courage, Sansa knelt down and unlocked the chest.

The item was tucked away at the bottom of the chest, it was hidden underneath a few scrolls, some old and some new, a silk bag which Sansa knew to keep for the hardest of times, it contained different jewels and jewellery, some rubies and diamonds that would be used to barter with anyone if things turned out for the worst. However, they weren’t the things Sansa was looking for.

In the dark of the night, with the contents of the chest mostly in shadows, it was Sansa’s hand that found it before her eyes did. She could feel the thick fabric, and gripped it tight. It was pulled up and out, everything in its way tumbled to the bottom of the chest, and Sansa stood with it still in her hand.

The white cloak had a brightness to it in the limited light, it was the brightest thing in the room. With it hanging from her hand, the cloak appeared to be spotlessly white, but Sansa knew that to not be true. It had been washed in secret only a handful of times, however, each time it came back with lighter and lighter red marks, ones she knew to be of his blood; possibly her blood as well. Sansa had decided not to wash it anymore, worried that the stress of water and cleaning would ruin the still in-tact cloak. It had been a long time since she had gazed upon it, and that moment, that evening, was a better time than any before.

Leaving the chest unlocked, but placing the lid down with a small thump, Sansa placed the key back on her dresser, still carrying the cloak in her hand. She didn’t let it touch the stone flooring, she twisted it around her wrist to pull it up, and when her other hand was free, she brought the hanging piece to her chest and walked to her bed.

The locked door served as a barrier for her and the cloak, no one would be able to rush in and catch her in the act. With an arm keeping the cloak to her body, Sansa threw back the covers of her bed and slipped of her nightgown. Her night shift, made from thick linen and lined on the inside with cotton, did well to keep the cold from her body during the night, but Sansa thought against wearing it.

The cloak was placed in a heap on the bed and Sansa stripped herself of her shift. Even with the fire and warm walls surrounding her, Sansa felt a chill spike her body, goose bumps rose on every part of her skin as a result. She stared down at the cloak first, thinking of what she was about to do, then brought her knee up, taking the cloak into her hands as she slid into bed.

Against her naked body, the cloak felt warm and soft on her skin. Sansa let it soothe the goose bumps that had risen, but when the fabric brushed against her hardened nipples, she let out a gasp. With her head resting on her pillow, Sansa looked down at her breasts, they were creased against one another as she was lying on her side, and against all better judgement, she let Sandor’s cloak brush against her nipples once again.

The second time she felt it, waves of heat flooded to her core. It wasn’t the kind of heat made by the fire, it was an internal warmth, something that Sansa seldom felt in her body. Cautious of her movements, Sansa brought the long cloak between her thighs, their paleness matched the colour of the cloak, and she held her palm against the fabric.

Sansa took a deep breath inwards, her toes were stretching with pleasure, but she was reminded that she was in Winterfell, and she was resorting to pleasuring herself with Sandor Clegane’s cloak. If she were wiser and not being guided by her desires, she’d stop. However, to have the cloak in her arms, the only suitable substitute to having Sandor in her bed, it felt so good, and Sansa felt so good. She wanted that moment for herself, to indulge in an emotion she had repressed for so long.

To aid her indulgence, Sansa took one of the pillows at the head of her bed and brought it between her thighs, it being covered by the cloak. In the dead of night, presuming that the Great Hall was still lively, Sansa rutted her body against the pillow. Her right hand was gripped tightly against the pillow, holding it steady, then applying pressure and releasing when Sansa’s body reacted. The other end of the cloak was held in Sansa’s left hand, she let the fabric fall between her fingers, but her nails ended up digging into it when her movements began increasing.

Every so often, the pillow would hit the bundle of nerves in her core so perfectly that Sansa would cry out. It was never too loud, Sansa didn’t want to arouse suspicion from those who might’ve passed outside her door. To continue her fantasy in the cloak itself, Sansa imagined one of the people to pass her door to be Sandor himself. He would know, just by chance and instinct, that he was desired in Sansa’s chambers that night. There was no issue in the door being locked from the inside, Sandor would use his strength to knock it down with one blow, and it would’ve been worth it for the treasure that waited for him inside.

‘Sandor …’ Sansa moaned, the fire in her belly was growing, her legs became ached at the reels of pleasure that swan through her body. With a whimpering cry, Sansa’s body exploded, her eyes rolled back into her head and her core felt red hot with the quickness of her release. Sansa’s entire body felt ablaze, she looked down to see ruby patches of skin, blood was rushing around her body and it made her feel faint. She wanted Sandor to be by her side, to hold her and keep the warmth tight between them both, not to let a moment pass where their skin wasn’t united with the other.

It was a sad truth that Sansa had to remind herself of, perhaps pleasuring herself with the only keepsake she had of Sandor would’ve been how she lived her life. She felt that she would never get to experience the weight of his body on hers, to know what his fingers felt like caressing her body, to have his seed spent in her, and just like the rest of the night had been out of her control, a small tear fled her eyes.


	4. Sandor | The Stables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 8x01 reunion piece. Sandor has made it to Winterfell to continue the fight against the Whitewalkers. Sansa is Lady of Winterfell, but when she sees a figure from her past, things become more complicated.

_Fucking Winterfell._

Sandor could remember the last time he had passed the gates at the keep, that time seemed world’s away.

Nothing could be colder than beyond the Wall, Sandor had seen what he considered to be the depths of Hell, and he got by thinking that he’d never have to be so far north ever again. However, that didn’t mean he wasn’t to escape the horrors that the far north harboured, the Dead marched south, and every man, including himself, was fearing their arrival.

_Buggering pricks, with their buggering ice dragon._

Sandor would’ve rather taken on his brother than the army of White Walker’s, even if it meant dying in both battles. To think that his body could’ve been recruited to the army of the Dead didn’t bare thinking about.

Along with the convey that arrived from the south, Sandor had ridden well enough to Winterfell. There wasn’t any need to talk to those around him, Sandor didn’t kind peace in the company he kept, he supposed that some things weren’t likely to change with the impending threats that surrounded them. He’d sometimes share words with the Imp if he was kind enough to spare them, otherwise Sandor kept to himself.

Sandor liked being a loner of sorts, not that he thought himself mightier in not sharing his time with anyone else, it just seemed to make life easier by not entering someone else’s life. That way, there would be no disappointment if death took them, or if they betrayed themselves for a greater cause or sell themselves out like whores. Sandor remember being attached to the Wolf Bitch in some respects, but to think what happened to him in the end, it made him saltier and meaner. The Wolf Bitch had left him to die, and he was about to enter her home.

Winterfell could’ve been seen through the frost of the morning; its imposing figure couldn’t be hidden by the almighty weather that was upon it. The day had been different when Sandor had last approached the northern stronghold, remembering that the weather was fair, but his weight of armour meant he built up a sweat anyway. On that day, there was no chance of feeling warmth, but he did well in his leather tunic, faring better than those who were used to the southern comforts of the sun.

The back end of the convey had to wait whilst the royals completed their formalities. Sandor’s destrier, Arrow, waited patiently with him. The steed had been no Stranger, but Sandor had become accompanied to how well-behaved Arrow was in serving his master. It also meant that he didn’t need to tend to the horse so vigilantly, Arrow was accustomed to being handled by others, but Sandor attended to him all the same. Being useful and seeing to his horse meant Sandor could keep busy, but he did miss his old friend.

Arrow suited the band of Dothraki savages that had accompanied the Queen across the sea, being of a sleeker and more attractive build. Sandor could’ve hardly believed them when he first saw them, seemingly in their thousands, he had been told many times that it was near on impossible to expect the Dothraki to attempt a crossing of the Narrow Sea. Nevertheless, as Sandor waited, aching to get off his horse and ease the ache in his back, the Dothraki were around him, some even taking the initiative to survey the area in which they had ended up.

Soon, they were allowed into the bailey of Winterfell. All Sandor wanted at that point was to get rid of his horse, find who he had been bunked with and have a skin of wine. He liked to think he was a man of simple pleasures, but that all turned to pot when he let his eyes glance over those who were still standing in the bailey.

_Little Bird._

The red head, not the evil Witch red head, but his little bird, the Stark girl who had caused him so much grief and anguish in her time at King’s Landing. She was there, in her home, standing tall, taller than she had been the last time he had seen her. Surely it was a mirage, an imagination of Sandor’s wine-ridden mind, for she was so beautiful.

A sense of relief passed through Sandor’s body, to know that she was alive, she looked well, to think that all she had been through, she had made it home. He remembered that he had promised her such gift, but he failed. It was right of her not to trust him, he had been a Dog, mad with fighting and his blood up from the crazed night, no self-respecting High Maiden would’ve taken an offer like his.

From across the bailey, Sansa continued to stare his way. His horse had been taken by a skinny runt of a boy, and Sandor’s body was telling him to find the closest barrel of mead and help himself, but with the little bird staring his way, there was no chance of moving. Like divine intervention, his would-be murderer, Brienne of Tarth, took the little bird’s attention from him, and Sandor was no longer blessed with the pleasure of her gaze.

People of all creeds were milling about the keep, Sandor had a hard time in knowing where he belonged in such a congregation of people, especially when he caught every other person peering up at his scar-ridden face, knowing exactly who he was. There was no hiding his identity, the Lannister Dog would remain so, even when he had pledge his allegiance to fighting the Dead. All Sandor wanted was to keep his head down, not only figuratively but literally as well, his height was what caused the fascination amongst the common folk in the first place.

The stalls of food were close by, and Sandor felt a pain in his stomach from the long journey. He queued behind the others for a meal, more waiting on his part, but the pain he had originally thought was hunger turned to something else. The hunger subsided, and Sandor promptly left the queue.

From his hazy memory of the keep, Sandor guided himself to the stables. The care of Arrow had been taken by the boy, but Sandor needed something to occupy his mind. The smell of hay attack Sandor’s nose, it was thick and stuffy, and with the amount of men that were to-ing and fro-ing, he felt a sweat break out on his brow before even beginning to work.

‘Boy, where did you take my horse?’ The boy had a bale of hay resting on his back, how the little runt managed to keep it there astonished Sandor.

‘To the end, Ser. He hasn’t been seen to yet.’ The boy had a thick accent, he was a true northerner, and it was made clear just how he could’ve carried that weight on his lithe body.

‘I am no Ser.’ Sandor muttered, and took off down the long line of stalls, and he noticed that each horse was seemingly getting a better fair of food than the common folk outside.

The work was meticulous, but Sandor enjoyed the monotony of it. He had to clean the coat, pick the hooves, brush the mane and see that Arrow had enough food for the night. The horse had no bother in Sandor treating him so roughly at times, a snort was given if he dropped his hoof too quickly, but he wasn’t the kind to nip or stamp. Sometimes, when Sandor saw to Stranger, bedding him down for the night turned into a fight. Stranger would resent having his mane combed, thinking himself not worthy of being a pretty horse, but a tough one. Sandor was the only man in Westeros who could’ve approached Stranger with a brush, any other man would’ve ended up on their arse and in horse shit.

Despite the work, the little bird pervaded his mind. He didn’t want to be so affected by her, the Lady of Winterfell, but a range of emotions had bubbled up and made themselves known, and Sandor didn’t know how to handle them.

Sandor had to remind himself that they were no longer in the same position as in King’s Landing. She was no longer a little bird, trapped in her gilded cage by the Lannister lions, nor was he the King’s dog, ready to cower and growl whenever it was commanded of him. The Hound was no longer, nor was the frightful little girl Sansa had been. There was no expectation that she would’ve been relying on him to appear for the fight against the Dead, he didn’t think she’d personally thank him for turning up for the cause. There was no instance that Sandor could think of that would have he and Sansa conversing with one another, for no one else knew what kind of memories they shared.

To think that Sandor was to go without uttering one word to Sansa during his time in Winterfell made him work harder in the stables. He had to serve his purpose, to help fight the Dead, and if that meant shovelling horse shit then so be it. If the little bird could’ve found it in her heart to spare Sandor a moment of her time, that bridge would’ve been crossed at the time.

\-----

Dinner would’ve been a miserable affair if Sandor didn’t have his little bird to gaze upon. He hated how controlled he seemed to be by her appearance, her speech to the banner men of the north had him almost weeping with pride for her, she had taken her role with such dignity and more. In a sense, Sandor was jealous that Sansa seemed so in control of herself, there were things in her past that he was not aware of, simply because she had refused to come with him that night of the Blackwater.

Sandor was glad that he had chosen a place so far from the others in the Great Hall, he was sure that no one was able to see him looking over at the high table. If he suspected that he wasn’t going to have a moment alone with Sansa, there was no one to stop him from stealing glances of her. If anyone were to noticed him, he’d simply tell them to fuck off.

Not that he had been expecting it, but the little bird looked over at him once again. It pleased him to a fault that she would think to look his way, but he feared that it would only be that much. Sandor’s plate of food was long gone, he was only staying in the Great Hall to finish his mead and gaze upon the little bird.

With a steadier atmosphere, where Sansa remained seated rather than having to leave for urgent business, Sandor was able to attune himself to how Sansa had matured. There was never a moment when Sansa seemed relaxed, Sandor hadn’t seen that side of her when they were in King’s Landing, but in her home, Sansa was clearly more at ease. Of course, there was the Queen to worry about, Sandor would’ve loved to hear Sansa’s opinions on her, but otherwise, she looked contented.

There was no mad King to make her fear anymore, he had been long dead, and even with her first husband, the Imp, just a few seats away, Sansa knew how important she was at that table, and Sandor felt a pride for her because of it.

‘Who d’you reckon? The Stark girl or the Targaryen girl?’

Sandor had hoped to not listen in on anyone else’s conversations, mostly because he wasn’t interested, but his eyes flicked over to the man in question. Sandor recognised him from being one of the many that had travelled with him from King’s Landing.

‘The Stark girl’s already two husband down, I reckon she’d know her way around a cock better than the dragon Queen would.’

‘Too right, wouldn’t want one of those dragon’s burning your balls off.’

_Cunts._

The two men shared a laugh with one another, not noticing that they had been heard by Sandor, and he did his best to not lash out at the pair of them. He was already seething, head beginning to pound, and he looked up once more. Like before, Sansa continued to stare at him, but Sandor didn’t feel worthy of her gaze anymore. Her Wolf Bitch of a sister knocked her arm and distracted her, and Sandor took that as his cue to leave the Great Hall. He felt that if he heard anymore from the two cocksuckers, he’d be tried and executed by the Queen for murder before the evening was out.

Due to the limited space in Winterfell, Sandor was resigned to sharing his quarters, just lowly rooms at the far end of the castle, and not a place he wanted to go to. He wasn’t sure if his chamber-mate would be there, but he wasn’t risking it either. The only place that Sandor could think of was the stables. It would’ve been quiet at that time of night, only a few stable hands milling around, the large numbers of destriers were keeping them busy.

No one said a word when Sandor appeared and started shovelling shit. He fumed at the idea of men still thinking Sansa was worth only what was between her legs, it made Sandor sick. He knew there were always cunts in the world, ones who thought with their cocks as they had no brains, and he felt worse knowing that he’d be fighting beside such men. Fighting beside them for the Lady of Winterfell. Sandor imagined himself back in the Great Hall, taking one head in each hand and bashing the men together, their hollow heads smashing. The thought soothed him for only a moment, because he then thought of how Sansa would’ve reacted to him doing such an action.

To Sansa, Sandor would only remain as the Hound, he was sure of it. To act depraved as the Hound would, Sansa would’ve expected it, but he wouldn’t give into the urges of storming back to the hall to finish those men off. Instead, Sandor took his anger out on their equivalent, the piles of horse shit that scattered the different horse stalls.

\-----

Sandor’s chamber mate snored in the night, and he found himself stirring awake every so often. Sandor kept his hand on the small dagger underneath his pillow, every time he was resigned to open his eyes, his grip on the handle tightened slightly, thinking there might’ve been an intruder.

The morning presented itself with a howling wind, one that even Winterfell couldn’t shield from. Sandor felt that his room was rattling with the strength of it, and it became unbearable to force himself to have more sleep. The clothes he had taken off the night before were placed at the end of his cot, he daren’t step out onto the stone floor without socks on first. Dressed for the day, and leaving his chamber mate snoring, Sandor headed out into the keep.

The castle was barely stirring, and Sandor felt more confident in guiding his way to the stables, knowing that there were no common folk or knights to gawk at him. As Sandor entered the stables, there was only a few young men beginning the day, seeing to all the destriers after the bitter night. They paid Sandor no mind, leaving him to his own devices.

Arrow was still slumbering when Sandor looked over the stall gate. No matter how many of the horses were still sleeping, there was always work to be done in the stables, and Sandor began readying himself by fetching a bale of fresh hay. It lay in stacks just outside the stables, tightly covered by a thick sheet. Sandor knelt on a rock to start untying one end of the sheet, not wanting to have his clothes soaked with mud. His large fingers were struggling at how deftly the knot had been tied.

_Buggering Hells!_

Sandor resorted to tearing the knot instead, his great paws splicing the threaded knot until it frayed. He stood, using his good leg to lean on as he rose, and bent down to bring the sheet over, the layer of snow flew with it. Sandor let out a huff of breath, and just as he was going to bend to pick a bale up, his eyes caught a figure in the distance, and he looked over.

There she was, risen before her keep had. Sandor couldn’t understand why Sansa was up so early, he was sure that the kitchen staff were just waking to start boiling the pots and lighting the fires. Of course, Sansa had noticed him, the only other person on the west side of the castle, and he was a hard man to miss. Sandor didn’t know if he was to acknowledge the Lady of Winterfell, or carry on with his work.

To Sandor’s astonishment, Sansa made a beeline for him. He felt ridiculous, not knowing where to look, feeling his palms sweat as she didn’t break her gaze from him. Sandor did what he did best, frowned and kept quiet until he was spoken to.

‘Sandor.’

Sandor felt a groan almost escape his throat, what he wouldn’t have given to hear Sansa say his name in her sweet lilt once more.

‘Good morning, and welcome.’ Sansa greeted. It took all of Sandor’s might not to bring his eyes down to see every inch of her. She looked even more beautiful up close, and felt unworthy of her attentions on him.

‘Thank you, my Lady.’ Sandor nodded his head once and shifted on his feet, feeling slightly awkward.

‘Will I see you in the Great Hall to break fast?’ Sansa’s voice was airy, as light as the fresh layer of snow that Winterfell was covered in, and Sandor’s heart melted.

‘Aye, my Lady.’ 

Sansa’s lips turned to a smile, one Sandor was genuine. He watched as Sansa looked to her feet, clearly thinking over her next words. She lifted her head smoothly, not missing a beat in her respected air. ‘I’m glad you’re here, and that you made it.’

Sandor’s body tensed when Sansa brought a gloved hand his way. His eyes flicked down to see it, and when it touched his arm, jolts of heat spurred throughout his body. It was like time no longer existed, Sandor lifted his gaze to see Sansa’s fierce, blue eyes boring into his. His little bird.

Sansa retracted her hand and left with a nod, and Sandor swore than a smirk graced her lips before she tore her eyes away from him. He couldn’t look away as he watched the Lady on Winterfell retreat, and felt his heart stop when she glanced over her shoulder at him. He was beyond all measure of bewilderment, his little bird.


	5. Sansa | The Prayers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 8x01 reunion piece. Sandor has made it to Winterfell to continue the fight against the Whitewalkers. Sansa is Lady of Winterfell, but when she sees a figure from her past, things become more complicated.

The cold chill of the night drifted over Sansa’s body, her naked body lay strewn in both her bed covers and the white cloak, both had done nothing in keeping her body warm. Sansa shivered as she stirred, she peeked down to see her toes, going lightly blue. The thought of having less toes than was normal urged Sansa to get out of bed to find some socks.

Sansa tiptoed on the cold flagstone to her large dresser, and socks were found to cover her feet quickly. Now that she had been forced to get up, Sansa thought to see how the day faired. With a robe wrapped around her, she opened the wooden shutter. To Sansa’s surprise, the air was dark and seemed thick with mist, the only respite was that it wasn’t snowing. The day would still be cold despite that fact.

Instead of heading back to bed, Sansa stood by her window and let her eyes adjust to the night. There weren’t many moments of the waking day that Winterfell would be so quiet, so peaceful, and Sansa revelled in it. She breathed in deep, the crisp air pervaded her nose and cleared her lungs, true northern air, she was happy to breath it in.

The dying light of the fire behind Sansa didn’t mar her sight, and soon, her eyes were sharper in the darkness. Sansa had thought that it was darkness, but to her right, the sky wasn’t an inky black, but a cloudy grey. She stared at it for a long time, wondering why the sky was changing in such a peculiar way, but then she realised, it was the dawn. It wasn’t as early in the morning as Sansa had originally thought.

From staring into the cold horizon for so long, Sansa no longer felt sleepy. In truth, it had been an awful night of sleep, a quick look over her shoulder and the strewn, messy covers were confirmation of this. Sansa stood tall and puffed her chest out, relieving her muscles of tension. With the morning drawing in, Sansa felt that there was no better time to start the day; she’d rather spend her morning wisely than wasting it being fretful in bed.

Without her handmaiden to aid her, Sansa struggled with her dress. She used her looking glass to see the fastening of buttons along her spine, and with aches in her arms, they were all done up to the nape of her neck. Sturdy boots were placed on her feet, not the most ladylike of accessories, but Sansa appreciated how they kept her feet warm, even if she had to trudge through mountains of snow. Lastly, a cloak, not the white one still creased on her bed, but a large, fur-lined cloak, one she wore for everyday use.

Winterfell was almost worrying quiet, but Sansa had to remind herself that there would be no reason for anyone to be wondering around the keep. Despite being the Lady of Winterfell, she did feel like she was sneaking around the castle. It took her back to when she was younger, so much younger, and she’d hear of her sister, Arya, sneaking about in the night, only to end up discovered by one of her father’s men and chastised by their mother in the morning. The thought made Sansa smirk, one that she didn’t need to hide as she was alone. To think how simple times had been.

Sansa’s duties as Lady of Winterfell had kept her occupied since she took the station, and there weren’t many times that she found to visit the Godswoods. For as long as she could remember, it had been one of her favourite places to visit, and no matter how much they reminded Sansa of her family, she was guaranteed peace at least.

The grey sky Sansa had seen in the distance from looking through her chamber window had covered the entirety of the sky. The hulking weirwood tree was still visible in the darkness, the stature was only masked when a blizzard arrived.

Sansa could see her breath in front of her face, and she felt her cheeks redden with blood at the chill, but she felt her peace. So many memories happened around the tree, if Sansa closed her eyes, she could imagine her father kneeling by it, her mother with him, in their own moments of prayer. Sansa wished that she could be with them then, no one else would have to know of the presence, just her. Sansa dropped to her knees gently, not worrying about the snow soaking her clothes.

Sansa brought her gloved hands together and held them at her breasts. With no one else around, Sansa spoke her prayers rather than thinking them. If she said them with her voice, they might’ve been answered.

‘Bless for father, mother, Robb and Rickon, may they be resting well and in peace with each other by their side.’ Sansa always prayed for her family first, from when they were alive and then, when they were no longer. ‘Bless for Jon, to keep his mind and body healthy for what is to come. Bless for Arya, for she has life to live, no matter how much death controls her. Bless for Bran, for his wellbeing and sharp mind. Bless for Brienne, to remain strong and protect Winterfell’s walls.’

Sansa had taken to remind herself of how lucky she was to have Brienne, and it comforted her knowing that she was prayed for in her own way, for she deserved it. ‘Bless for the Queen, so Jon may not know pain in his heart.’ It had been an afterthought, but she felt it was true. There was more to learn about the Queen, but the way she treated her brother couldn’t be ignored.'

‘Bless for Sandor, that he survives the Dead and … that he spares me a thought in these times.’ Sansa wanted to pray for more, to ask for friendship and guidance on how she was to navigate her feelings on him, but to know that he thought of her would’ve been enough then.

After Sansa had spoken her prayers, she brought her hands to lay against her chest, head still bent in submission to the Old Gods, and she felt warmed by the weirwood’s presence. She knelt with her eyes closed a moment more, levelling her breath and feeling the breeze whip her hair around her face. To think that the Dead could take her home from her made Sansa feel worry, the absolution of Winterfell being no more scared her, and she hoped all would be well.

When Sansa opened her eyes, the dark grey sky had turned to a cool grey, and birds were tweeting and signalling the morning’s arrival. She knew that if she spent more time from her chambers without a guard by her side, she’s be chastised by Brienne or Jon, so her time in the Godswoods came to an end.

Like Sansa had become accustomed to, she walked with her head held high, even when there weren’t others to judge her appearance. Sansa liked to use her height to look upon her banner men, it felt right being a Lady and tall. It made debates easier when Sansa didn’t have to crane her neck to face her man. With her head held high, Sansa walked through the stone archway and passed the guesthouses, her boots kicking snow with every step. A grunt from her right made her pause, her body still with sudden caution, but there was no need to fear for her safety.

A smile graced Sansa’s lips, for Sandor was a mere thirty paces from where she stood. She buried the thoughts of how he had been the man she thought about the previous night, alone in her chambers, and decided to finally greet her old friend.

Sansa watched as Sandor refused to move from his spot, like her gaze was rooting him to the ground, he wasn’t to move in a Lady’s presence. Sansa’s heart pounded in her chest, it took all her might to not sped into a strut, to get to him faster. Despite her height, regular men didn’t make her look up, but Sandor had a greater height than Brienne, but she didn’t feel put out by lifting her head for him. It was a relief to regard upon features once again, close like they had been in King’s Landing, but Sansa didn’t look over the frown he seemed to be sporting.

‘Sandor.’ It felt like sweetness on her tongue to say his name, it felt so real. They exchanged pleasantries for pleasantries sake, but Sansa remembered that they were alone, no sworn shield shadowing her, no Stark knight passing by, no smallfolk to gaze upon the pair, and Sansa was desperate for more.

Sansa brought her hand forward, no one could’ve stopped her, and she placed it on Sandor’s strong forearm. If she had lost her mind completely, she would’ve brought her hand to his neck, then her lips, but Sansa didn’t forget herself. To feel him in her own hand, her fingers splayed against the cloth of his tunic, Sansa still felt a warmth from his body.

To Sansa’s delight, Sandor didn’t retract at her touch. Not that courtesies mattered to him, and the way his grey eyes studied her told Sansa that she hadn’t overstepped a mark. She almost felt encouraged at his lack of reaction, to think what could’ve happened if she wasn’t the Lady of Winterfell.

The moment wasn’t to last, any longer and Sansa knew she needed to go back to her chamber. The thought of Caroline finding the white cloak made Sansa shudder, but wondered what reaction Sandor would’ve had to it.

Back in her chambers, Sansa’s hand still felt numb but alight at the same time, if she had the time to stare at it, she would’ve. Instead, she removed the glove from her hand and grabbed the white cloak still on her bed. It had been soiled from the night before, Sansa would’ve had to think about how to get it clean again, but she smirked at the thought of its purpose to her. No one needed to know her act with it, perhaps Sansa would do it again, the thought made her toes curl.

Sansa reflected on her morning, it was like she had tasted the forbidden fruit. Everyone was pulling her which way, Lord Royce was keeping her up to date with all the going’s on at the keep, Brienne would keep her company when she wasn’t followed and maned by Stark guards, she conversed with Jon when needs be, Sansa had nothing for herself. The Queen was another kettle of fish, they had yet to spend a moment alone with one another, but Sansa knew of another she’d rather be alone with.

To manipulate a situation with Sandor would’ve taken planning, there were too many people around to cause suspicion. Although she had a few liberties as Lady of Winterfell, she was still a young woman, and of an ancient lineage, certain things were expected of her. A dalliance with the Hound was not one of them. But what Sansa kept to herself would remain so, and she thought that no one would question the Lady of Winterfell in choosing a season warrior to train the newer knights and squires in combat.

A small smile graced her lips at the thought, to have Sandor train her men would be ideal, she just hoped that he would been in agreeance with her.


	6. Sansa | The Proposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 8x01 reunion piece. Sandor has made it to Winterfell to continue the fight against the Whitewalkers. Sansa is Lady of Winterfell, but when she sees a figure from her past, things become more complicated.

Sansa didn’t go back to sleep after her morning at the Godswoods, although her body felt slightly weary with the early start. Caroline entered her chambers with a purpose to wake her from sleep, and was surprised to see that Sansa was sitting in her solar instead, attending to the many scrolls that were organised neatly on the surface. They said their good mornings to one another, it caught Sansa by surprise when Caroline asked if she dressed easily that morning, and if she was feeling well.

‘I had much on my mind and couldn’t sleep a moment longer. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was up.’

‘Of course, m’lady. Will you be wanting your food in your solar?’

‘No, I’ll join everyone in the Great Hall. Thank you, Caroline.’

Sansa watched as Caroline curtsied then busied herself around the room, making the bed and tidying any mess. Sansa flicked her eyes up more often than she was blinking when her handmaiden was attending to her bed, a stroke of worry in her mind about her suspecting anything out of the ordinary. Caroline would’ve been labelled a witch if she suspected that Sansa had a less than innocent night in her bed, and she found no qualms about its state.

A guard was waiting for Sansa outside of her room, and without asking, she was shadowed from her chambers to the Great Hall. It was still early by all accounts, the steaming eggs had just been served when Sansa took her seat at the high table. It was only her and Lord Tyrion who were gazing over the other tables, and out of consideration, Sansa took a seat next to him.

‘Good morning, my Lady.’

‘My Lord.’ Sansa filled her plate with eggs and streaks of bacon, her stomach gave a slight growl at having been awoken so long ago but not filled. No matter the hunger she felt, Sansa took small forkfuls of food.

‘It seems the Lady is awake before half her castle.’ Tyrion muttered. Sansa could see that he was nursing a goblet, keeping it close to his chest. She doubted that it was the winter berry-infused water she was drinking.

‘Of course, I take my station seriously.’ Sansa replied dryly. The burden of small talk with her first husband wasn’t the tonic for letting her breakfast go down easily, but there was worse company to keep, so Sansa counted herself lucky.

‘I would never doubt your loyalty in which you rule your keep.’ Tyrion said, raising a hand in fake surrender. ‘You have only gone and proved everyone wrong in saving its integrity. What the Bolton’s did to it is now a memory in its walls.’

Sansa’s lip quirked into a small smile. Despite his misgivings and their past, Sansa knew that Tyrion was being genuine, and decided not to jab a reply his way and savour what he had said. She shifted her gaze his way for a moment, and was met with familiar eyes. Tyrion bowed his head gently, and Sansa felt that enough words had been spoken between them to save face in front of the banner men.

The morning was filled with regular duties, Sansa and Lord Royce walked from the Great Hall to the armoury, seeing the work being done by labourers to make sure every man had a means of protection against the Dead. From the armoury they walked to the kitchens, Sansa talked with the head cook about the meals for the day, and was pleased to hear that all resources were being rationed accordingly, neither the High Born nor the small folk were eating outside of their needs. Lord Royce suggested that they should head inside and see to more paperwork, but Sansa, as well as hating paperwork, had other means for herself. She came up with a thought, her plan would’ve been perfect to perform in that moment.

‘Lord Royce, I thank you for your company this morning. I have but one more task to see to, but I shall join you in my solar as soon as I have completed it.’ Sansa said. Her voice was steady and commanding, and if Lord Royce had means to deny her the task she mentioned of, it never formed as words on his lips.

‘Of course, my Lady. I shall see you when you are ready.’

With a bow of his head, one that drew a moment of attention to his balding head, Lord Royce took his leave from Sansa, two Stark guards left standing a few paces away in her protection. They would need seeing to in a moment, but Sansa had to speak with Brienne first.

Although she was tasked with being her sworn shield, the matter of the Dead approaching had changed Brienne’s station into one of combat trainer. She took her duty outside of the North Gate, where so many others were completing their duties and strengthening the castle to a high capacity.

Brienne stood tall over the other knights and squire’s, then mere smallfolk who had procured a sword and were eager to learn to use it. There wasn’t a sword in Brienne’s hand, however, instead, she paced like a true master in-between the couples that sparred with one another, shouting praises or improvements where she saw fit. It made Sansa proud that Brienne found the confidence in herself to order men around her, she was one of the best with the blade.

After a moment, Brienne noticed Sansa waiting patiently near the stone wall of the castle, keeping her distance from the training. Without needing to be told, Brienne shouted for those around her to carry on with their technique, and she strode quickly over to Sansa.

‘My Lady. Is everything well?’ Brienne asked. Since Brienne was no longer shadowing Sansa at all times, whenever they did see one another, she would always ask the same question first. Sansa smiled sweetly, a particular expression solely for Brienne to receive, and she nodded.

‘Yes, Brienne, I am well. And I see that you are performing your role to a splendid degree. I’m impressed.’ Sansa saw how Brienne’s features didn’t change, but her sworn shield wasn’t so stonehearted that a compliment couldn’t affect her. No matter the indifference Brienne showed, Sansa knew that when a compliment was given by herself, Brienne received it warmly.

‘Thank you, my Lady. I am doing the best that I am able with the men that are spared to learn.’ Brienne was always so meticulous in making sure her words were fair and didn’t leave room for offending anyone. It was Sansa’s goal to encourage more from her, no matter how many questions and compliments it took.

‘I am glad to hear it. I have been wondering, however, if we are able to spare more men to learn the ways of a sword, or battle axe, or even a spear.’ It was a statement to be left open-ended, Sansa wanted to hear Brienne’s true and wise thoughts.

‘That would be best, my Lady, but I can only see to twenty or so men at a time. Perhaps thirty at a push. More men under my command would mean less instruction for an individual. It’s either fewer trained or more unskilled.’

Sansa nodded slowly, she had just been given the answer she expected. ‘Thank you for your honesty. I came here to suggest a different tactic. There is a man within the castle that has an equal talent for the blade as you do, and I know he can be spared from his duties to assist you in commanding more men than you are able to on your one.’

‘Yes, my Lady?’ Brienne asked.

‘But I came to you first, because you have met this man before, and, I hear, parted in a difficult circumstance.’ Sansa’s words had gripped Brienne, so she stopped edging around her point.

‘Sandor Clegane.’

As expected, Brienne’s face remained stoic, but Sansa took that as a good indication that she wasn’t wholly disgusted with the idea. Then a thought passed over Brienne’s features, one that Sansa picked up on immediately.

‘My Lady, please forgive my asking, but why did you think to come to me first?’

Sansa felt sweetened by how humble Brienne would remain. Although Sansa was keen to have Sandor put to good use, and to see him once again would sate her appetite for him, she would never have put Brienne in such a position in which she would feel comfortable. Sansa was aware of what had occurred between them many years ago, and to think that Brienne bested the best swordsman in Westeros at the time made Sansa proud to have her as her own sworn shield.

‘You would be working as equals, both having your own men to command. Are you agreeable to this?’ Sansa asked, putting an urgency on Brienne’s word.

Brienne didn’t need time to think over the request. ‘Yes, my Lady. To have more men ready for the fight would be wise, and Clegane is an experienced fighter.’

Sansa wanted to let out a giggle at Brienne’s fair-minded answer, but thought it might’ve been taken in a mocking manner. Instead, Sansa smiled warmly at her, and bowed her head.

‘Then I shall fetch him at once. And from what I hear, not as experienced as you.’ Sansa raised an eyebrow teasingly, and in the white light of the day, Sansa swore she could see pink rise faintly on Brienne’s cheeks.

‘My Lady.’ Brienne said thickly, and nodded her head. She turned swiftly to join her command of men, and carried on with her work with great enthusiasm.

Sansa walked back into the castle, several steps ahead of her guards. They were the next obstacle. She was Lady of Winterfell, to be watched over at all times as a mere common practice of nobility, but Sansa didn’t want them hanging around her as she saw to Sandor. She knew he wouldn’t appreciate the eavesdropping they were bound to do, and she felt the same.

As Sansa walked from the North Gate to the stables, she feared that Sandor would reject her idea. He would be angry and tell her in harsh words that he just wanted to keep his head down, to get on with simpler work, and to not be inclined to play nice with Brienne. Expecting the worst was not building Sansa’s confidence, and her steps slowed by an inch of a second. Sansa had all the reasons for him to command and train in her mind, they were fact, not pretend, but she didn’t want to end up insulting Sandor for not taking his place and using his skill for the cause. It would’ve been his choice in the end, and Sansa would make it clear that whatever he chose, she would be agreeable to it.

A tall man, taller than those around him, was entering the stables with his arms carrying a full bale of hay. From the distance, Sansa noticed that it would take the Stark stable hands two men to carry a full bale, and for Sandor, it was nothing. Sansa felt the familiar wave in her lower stomach, something that had to be ignored.

Knowing that Sandor was just inside the stables, Sansa ordered her guards to wait outside. Both of them hesitated, sharing an obvious look with one another, but she gave them a long stare, one without words, and they did as they were bid.

When she knew her men would not follow her, Sansa entered the stables. It was a place she rarely visited, she liked riding well enough, but not so much that she felt chained to the care of the horses in the keep. Each stable hand that she passed bowed in her presence, Sansa kept a light expression on her face as regard for them all, but her eyes were sharp in finding Sandor.

It wasn’t until Sansa reached the end of long line of stalls that Sandor appeared. It was a shame that she had been seen first, Sandor had a comb in his hands, having just started to tame the horse’s man. Sansa felt that she would’ve liked to see him perform such an action, something so gentile and odd for Sandor to complete.

‘Hello, Sandor.’ Sansa greeted, not being shy in speaking to him. Sandor started to move away from the horse, but Sansa took a step forward first, letting herself inside the horse’s stall. That way, they weren’t going to be looked upon by the others in the stables. They had a small slice of privacy in an otherwise busy building.

‘My Lady.’ Sandor placed his hands behind his back, the horse’s comb out of sight.

‘I have a proposition for you, if you’d like to hear it.’

Like Brienne, Sandor was keeping his wits about him. No expression other than one of attention held his features, but just to see his eyes fix on hers was enough for Sansa.

‘I appreciate that you have leant your knowledge to the stables, but I have other means for you. There are many men who are still green with a sword, and I would like you to guide them in how to wield one.’

‘My Lady, I-’

‘I should warn you, Brienne of Tarth, my sworn shield is out commanding as many men as she is able. I hope you will find her a pleasant person to work with.’

Sansa swore she saw the unburnt corner of Sandor’s lips twitch. It was merely a moment, but it warmed Sansa’s heart to think that she had caused him a beat of joy. Still, Sansa request had remained unanswered, and she could hear footsteps passing behind her. They weren’t alone anymore, Sansa’s appearance in the stables had only caused the workers to pause for a moment, but when they realised that there was work to do, they pretended that the Lady was not there, out of respect for her privacy. Yet it wasn’t private enough.

‘Please, Sandor.’

It was dangerous to do so, but Sansa brought her right hand forward. Her hand touched the crook of Sandor’s elbow, her way of bringing him back to his senses. As an immediate reaction, Sandor’s arm fell to his side. The touch of Sansa’s gloved hand pulled his grip apart from behind his back, Sansa was surprised at his compliance. The act was enough to widen Sansa’s eyes slightly, and she looked up at Sandor with great curiosity.

‘Please, Sandor, as a favour to me.’

Sansa expected Sandor’s reply to be cutting, he’d ask her of what favour he’d get in return, but his grey eyes went soft. Sansa almost felt a pain in her heart, it was not a broken expression, but one of meekness, so unusual of Sandor. Without thinking, Sansa’s touch on Sandor’s arm tightened slightly. In response, Sandor’s eyes rounded on her own.

‘Aye.’


	7. Sandor | The Regret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 8x01 reunion piece. Sandor has made it to Winterfell to continue the fight against the Whitewalkers. Sansa is Lady of Winterfell, but when she sees a figure from her past, things become more complicated.

To think that Sandor had been asked specifically to aid in the combat training made his heart swell. It hadn’t been something he’d thought about before, he only wanted to keep his head down and save his neck with the Dead came. Of course, he’d fight to save as many as possible, but the lines were so blurred, there was no cohesion to anything anymore. Everyone was on an equal footing with the Dead, they could take anyone, no matter how royal their blood was. Sandor was no different, and he’d swing his axe until they all smashed to pieces before him.

However, Sandor was no longer allowed the luxury of being alone, as Sansa had asked him to help the cause. To help her. Training more men in the art of swordsmanship meant that there would be more weapons in hands, more people to defend Winterfell. Not only would the keep be at a greater advantage, but Sansa as well. Sandor swore to himself that, if the situation presented itself, he’d defend Sansa till his last dying breath. He’d swing his axe until the Dead overpowered him, and even then, Sandor knew he’d keep swinging.

It pained Sandor’s heart to think that they might not win, that all everyone had trained and prepared for was for nought, that even the sweetest, most innocent would die. That thought spurred Sandor on, it felt right to defend the weak and protect the living.

Sansa had warned Sandor that Brienne was to also command men in their training, but for Sansa’s sake, he’d make it work. It was hard for Sandor to tell himself it was better to bite his tongue than lash out in an argument with Brienne, with anyone, he’d hate to have information relayed back to Sansa that he was still the short-tempered dog, unchanged from his time in King’s Landing.

The first morning of Sandor’s new role as combat trainer was a fretful one. Sandor had consumed enough watered-down wine the night before to knock him out for a few hours, but nerves set in with the cold morning chill. Once again, Sandor left his chamber mate snoring into his pillow, and he sneered at the sight of him.

_Have it fucking easy._

Sandor wished that his mind wasn’t so unsettled that it didn’t wake him before the castle had woken for the day, but Sandor wasn’t one to lie about in bed and wish sleep upon himself. The slight lack of sleep wouldn’t have affected his ability to train green boy’s, Sandor knew that as much, so pinched the bridged of his nose together as he sat on the edge of his bed. The slight squeeze of skin woke him up more, and with a deep breath of cold northern air into his lungs, Sandor was ready to perform his duties for the day.

A few people were milling about the Great Hall as breakfast started. Sandor noticed that Jon Snow had risen early that morning, and was in deep conversation with another at the high table. Sandor wondered if the Bastard had been told about his new appointment, and if he agreed with it. Since they had travelled to the Lands of Always Winter together, Sandor had gained more respect for Ned Stark’s Bastard. To know that he was doing well by Jon’s eyes meant more to Sandor than it had before. Before. Sandor often thought about everything before.

Before he realised there was nothing else to live for, nothing except to right the wrongs. He had almost died, it felt like he really did, and to know that he had been given a second life, he thought he needed to make it matter. Like Septon Ray had said, he had served his punishment for all his crimes before, he was living his second chance. The crimes before, all that he performed in King’s Landing, then with the Wolf Bitch, they mattered no more. Sandor was sure that all that had occurred between himself and Arya was behind them both, but he thought about asking if he was still on her list.

Between mouthfuls of hardened bread and cheese, a lesser meal that Sandor would’ve liked, Sandor’s thoughts turned to those he really let pervade his mind. The little bird, those crimes against her, not by his own hands, and if she remembered them like he did. Sandor had to berate himself, there was no doubt that she would’ve remembered, and he worried that whenever she gazed upon him, those memories entered her mind. There had been no one else that had seen those crimes by Joffrey, only Sansa’s first husband, Tyrion. When Sandor had seen Tyrion, still as short as he remembered, he had growled inwardly. What made matters worse was that Tyrion was Hand to the Queen, as if that wasn’t enough of a betrayal to his mad sister.

Out of everything, Sandor wished that he knew what Sansa felt. The little bird had changed so much, and he felt that he was missing it. It was perhaps selfish of him to think so, but with the imminent threat of the Dead, Sandor had nothing to lose.

When breakfast was over, Sandor paced to the armoury. His boiled leather tunic would’ve been enough to wear during training, Sandor was confident that he’d not get a scratch on him from a sword’s edge, but he needed a weapon himself. As he walked inside, his eyes glazed over the wooden training weapons, tucked to one side. An immediate thought had him disregarding them, there was no time to be playing about with toys, the Dead were imminent, and men needed to know how to wield steel, not wood.

The armourer presented Sandor with a steel Longsword, one that accompanied a shield. Sandor examined it out first, his grip hard on the leather handle, he twirled it once and brought it up high. The material was light, not as light as he was used to, but it would do well for training purposes. Sandor noted that it wasn’t Valryian steel, and he assumed that those weapons, the ones that had the power to slain the Dead, were being kept for the right time.

Sandor knew that Brienne trained outside of the keep, in front of the north gate. He supposed that the place was chosen due to the nature of its meaning, the Dead were to arrive northwards of the castle, it only made sense to get the fighters familiar with the territory.

Brienne was already there, commanding as many men as she could. Sandor approached without a word, gauging the woman’s reaction to his appearance. Most of the men standing idly with their swords had focused their eyes of Sandor as he had walked through the gate, subsequently missing the information Brienne was telling them because they were distracted. Brienne’s gaze followed, and without missing a beat, she nodded once, then turned back to the men.

Being vetted by Brienne was the only task he had to pass, for Sandor knew that he was a good fighter. Yet, in all his years of wielding swords, he had never been in the situation of teaching another its power. Before making his way over to the men not ordered into training, Sandor watched Brienne.

Sandor chuckled to himself when Brienne started shouting orders. At her command, pairs were made, each man to practice off another, and Brienne walked in-between them all, eyes glued on one pair for a few moments, watching a man lunge at his would-be opponent, then her eyes moved onto the next pair, where they were exchanging blows to the aged armour adorned their bodies. It seemed simple enough, and Sandor ordered the others to do as they saw.

Sandor copied Brienne, having left his shield to one side and his sword in its scabbard, he placed his hands behind his back, never daring to miss a move from any of the men under his command. Although the spirit was there, Sandor had to remind himself that some of the men may have never touched a sword before. However, Sandor knew the cost of untrained and unwilling men, and the Dead would not take pity on their lack of skill when the time came.

‘Fight like you’re fucking life depends on it! Or have the Night King rip your balls off himself!’ Sandor had taken to a familiar form of language, one that he knew men would respond to. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw that Brienne had turned to listen in at his sharp words, she hadn’t resigned to speaking the same as him.

_Don’t tell me how to train them, I’ve fought more than anyone here._

There was no rest for those who seemed to become weary quickly, if Sandor noticed that someone was flagging behind their partner, he’d take them by the fabric of their sleeve and pull them to another fighter. The weary man would be placed with one that had twice the energy, forced to think quicker than before. If it made him a man to hate, Sandor didn’t care.

‘When the Dead come, aim for the heart, always. Then head, legs, arms, slice them till they’re dust at your feet!’ Sandor’s booming voice rang out again. All the men around him heard his words, and Sandor swore that after an impassioned command, they’d all fight harder, even if it was just for a moment.

Men sweated, even with the cold and snow around them. The men were heaving, wheezing, resting their hands on their knees; any other time, Sandor would’ve shouted at them to carry on, but he had tried to be fair. Brienne had already suggested to her men to regain their energy, drink and eat, and Sandor resigned to do the same.

Despite their bones aching in the middle of the day, Sandor watched the men walk back into the keep, slapping hands on one another’s back in camaraderie. It was strange to watch, Sandor thought that it might’ve been a northern custom to treat another so well in lieu of the fighting they had partaken in. There was certainly no amity back in King’s Landing, but Sandor remembered that he never stayed around long enough to expect such treatment. There was no one he was friends with back in the Kingsguard.

_Bunch of cunts._

There seemed to be none like the Kingsguard so far north, and Sandor had to be thankful in that. Such as the northern way, after the men had their fill, they were back out in front of the north gate, ready to start the early afternoon’s work of training.

Sandor stood to the side that time, seeing if standing still to conduct his command would be any easier for him. Brienne hadn’t told him not to, she was too concerned over her men, which made it easier for Sandor.

‘Thinking about joining in?’

Sandor knew who the voice belonged to without having to turn. The Wolf Bitch thought to sneak up on him, granted, she had shocked him from his intense stare over the men in front of him, but he wasn’t going to let on that she had.

‘They’re at my command.’ Sandor said evenly. Although they shared a colourful history with one another, Sandor had to remember whose sister Arya was, and that it would be best to keep his mouth as clean as possible.

‘And you’re at Brienne’s command?’

It was then that Sandor looked down to Arya. Her back was straight, as well as her gaze, for she didn’t turn to meet his eyes. He knew just what she was playing at, the Wolf Bitch wanted to play games and spin yarns to keep herself entertained.

‘I answer to no one.’

‘That I find hard to believe.’ Arya said, and Sandor growled in his throat. He turned his eyes back to the men in front of him, pretending to ignore the girl beside him.

‘You’re answering to the Dead, that’s why you’re here. Why we’re all here.’

Sandor breathed a laugh. ‘In all the time I’ve known you, that was perhaps the wisest thing you’ve said.’

‘I have my moments.’ Arya ghosted a smile on her lips, pleased with the rapport from Sandor. However, she wasn’t there to exchange friendly banter.

‘You also answered to another, otherwise you’d be sweating like a dog in the stables rather than out here, seeing that men know how to fight.’

Arya looked up, and she saw the clench of Sandor’s jaw. She had been right to follow up what she had heard the night before, Sansa informing Jon that Sandor would be helping Brienne in training, and Sansa had endorsed it as much as Jon had. Arya, on the other hand, was more sceptical. It hadn’t been Jon to ask Sandor for his help, it had been Sansa. To think that her sister had asked Sandor had reminded her of a time long before, where Sandor wasn’t standing to tall and clean, and had been at the mercy of her Needle.

‘So you’re out here, freezing like a commoner, doing Sansa’s bidding.’ Arya heard another growl from Sandor’s throat, but she wasn’t scared of it.

‘Say what you mean, Wolf Bitch, I don’t have time for fucking games.’ Sandor rasped. He had kept his voice low, refusing to make a scene in front of so many people.

‘I remember what you said about her, about my sister. ‘I should’ve fucked her bloody. At least I’d have one happy memory.’ Do you remember?’

There was no chance of forgetting his dying words, and he should’ve expected that Arya would be protective over Sansa. He had meant them then, his deranged and dying mind meant those words, but since his second chance, Sandor had come to regret them.

Arya watched Sandor’s face crumble, it had not been a reaction she expected, but it was one she was happy with.

‘Good. If you hurt Sansa in her home, I’ll burn you alive.’

_A fair punishment._

The Wolf Bitch left, having made her point clear for Sandor, and it left him feeling sick to the stomach. He swallowed thickly, then refocused his eyes. Brienne was looking over at him, the distance was enough for Sandor to pretend he had noticed, but notice he did. The last thing he wanted was Sansa's sworn shield and his would-be murderer questioning his presence there, he hoped she hadn't connected the dots. 

There was no anger, Sandor couldn’t get angry at words he knew were justified. He hated fire, Arya knew his weakness well enough, but to die by the thing that scared him the most would’ve been a just end to hurting the little bird. He would never dream of it, but to know that he had said it, even with a deranged mind, made his stomach churn.

The day carried on, men trained until they tired some more, and Sandor had gathered the nerve to shout commands at them again. After Arya had left, he thought it best to keep his feet moving, lest his mind take over and control him. Whilst he moved amongst the pairs, he offered sage advice, letting a man know he needed to lead with his other foot, another man needed to have more confidence in his swing, another had to expect more than a few dummy blows to the ribs.

Training finished when the sky started getting dark, and Sandor was thankful for the winter then. He was tiring from the day, his mind had stayed so sharp and focused for so long, it seemed that his mental endurance wasn’t as strong as his physical capacity. As he walked with the other men to return items to the armoury, he caught on to what they whispered to one another.

‘Too tired to fuck? You gotta be joking. Who knows when the dead bastards are coming to kill us, I want my fill of women before I die.’ One man said.

‘All of the northern prostitutes are in these walls, and I bet a gold dragon that none would touch your sweaty cock if you promised them the Iron Throne.’ Another man jested.

‘Like you have a gold dragon, you’re poorer than me!’

The men laughed with one another, finding amusement in a harsh time, but it left Sandor thinking. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been with a woman, surely when he had been a member of the Kingsguard in King’s Landing, but for the life of him, Sandor couldn’t remember how long ago that had been. A woman sounded good to him, there were frustration in his mind that he thought he could ease out with a fuck.

Sandor waited until after the dinner to find a woman, thinking it would be wiser to eat before expending his energy. However, the meal had been the tonic to set in seeds of doubt. Before eating, Sandor had been set in his mind that a woman was what he needed then, a simple fuck with a whore from the north, it wasn’t as if he would’ve been the only man with sex on his mind. Yet, when he sat down, planning on eating his fill quickly so as to hopefully avoiding any knights he recognised in searching for a whore, he questioned himself.

Like every night before, Sansa was sat at the high table, her red hair was glowing more so than the Targaryen’s, even if it was a darker shade. Because of its distinctiveness, Sandor found himself looking over like normal, finding that just a few seconds of gazing at her wasn’t enough.

Knowing that he was going to find a woman, and then glancing upon Sansa’s beauty, Sandor felt himself hardening just sat at the table. It was wrong to be so weak, but his thoughts about finding any woman with a pulse had turned more imaginative. It wasn’t a skinny northern girl he’d take from behind, but Sansa, and he’d worship her. She was a woman to be worshipped, he’d kneel down and beg in front of her, if that’s what she wanted from him.

Sandor’s grip on his knife tightened, and he stared at the table in front of him. The way Sansa had touched him, twice, hadn’t left his thoughts. Her hands were covered by gloves, but he dreamt they were bare, her hands, her slim arms, her soft neck, collarbones, then lower. Sandor wanted Sansa, he wanted to please her, to make her sing that song for him, the one he had asked at the Blackwater.

No longer able to hold a straight face at the dinner table, Sandor escaped. He decided against a whore, but then anyone could be a whore at the right price. Sandor paced to the kitchens, his breeches tight with every step. His breath shuddered in the cold corridors, but his body felt alight with aching and anticipation.

If Sandor’s body was hot, the kitchens were hotter. Steam seemed to hang in the air, condensation dripped down the walls, everyone Sandor passed was sweating, beads stretched across their brows. None of them cared for Sandor’s presence, they continued working despite the blood-rushed man that walked amongst them.

A flash of red made Sandor whip his head to the side. To one side of the room, a wench worked, cleaning pots until her fingers went raw, as red as her hair. Sandor watched from the shadows of the room, his eyes fixated on her locks, but then she turned to face him. Her features were not like Sansa’s, her nose was short, eyes were brown, no elegance carrying her. That wasn’t her fault, she was only a kitchen’s assistant, her red hair made her stand out against her northern counterparts, but she made Sandor realise something.

There would be no one else, no one alive in all the Seven Kingdoms, that would please Sandor. He assumed that was just his bad luck, to only have his heart set on one person who was seated high above his station, but it was true. Even if that meant never being with another woman, no cunny to sate his desires for a few moments of pleasure, then so be it. As Sandor walked away from the kitchens that night, he had resigned himself to an oath similar to the one a lad would when taking the Black; he’d never have a woman if it wasn’t Sansa, because she was the one who had his heart.


	8. Sansa | The Raven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 8x01 reunion piece. Sandor has made it to Winterfell to continue the fight against the Whitewalkers. Sansa is Lady of Winterfell, but when she sees a figure from her past, things become more complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to give a thank you to all those who've read and supported this work, it makes me so happy to know that people are enjoying it. I've made slight changes to the previous chapters, only spelling mistakes and the like, nothing too major. Hope you enjoy this next instalment, let me know what you think :)

Lord Royce had Sansa busier than ever. There never seemed to be a moment for herself, all the waking hours were spent walking around the keep, seeing to all those who were completing preparations for the fight, then every other hour was spent in her solar, seeing to papers and scrolls. It wasn’t until the evening, after dinner and when Sansa felt her eyes become weary, that she was allowed a moment for herself. She’d be in her room, her hair brushed in soft strokes by Caroline, the fire warming her so much her cheeks reddened. Her eyes would droop as Caroline worked the brush through her tresses, and it would be like a silent lullaby to send Sansa off to sleep.

As soon as Sansa’s head hit the pillow, her eyes would awaken, seemingly just seconds after they closed, but in truth it would be morning. Sansa was sleeping so deeply, and she knew it wasn’t just from the amount of work she was completing in the day, but it was from the worry. Along with seeing to her banner men, checking the number of weapons made by Dragonglass, and seeing that the keep was well defended, Sansa saw to everything with knowing the impending challenge they were to face. It felt that during the day, there was apprehension and stress, then she’d reach her chambers, have her hair brushed and fall into a deep sleep.

There was more fear, as a raven had arrived late in the evening, before the Great Hall was full with banner men eating their fill for the day. Sansa was in her chambers, Lord Royce had delivered the raven personally, that’s how she knew it was important. When the small scroll was in her hands, the crest of House Glover was on the front, Sansa had flicked her eyes up to Lord Royce. With a quick and hasty words, Sansa thanked Lord Royce for delivering the letter himself, and that he was to take his leave. Lord Royce knew how important the message was, and Sansa saw his jaw clench in slight annoyance, but he bowed and departed from the room.

Sansa was now alone in her solar, left to open the small scroll. Leant back in her chair, Sansa unrolled the parchment in her fingers and read the contents. Like she had suspected, the importance of the scroll had been true, for it was from Lord Glover himself. Unfortunately, it was not information that Sansa was keen to read, and had made their stronghold at Winterfell just that little bit weaker. He was to stay in Deepwood Motte, his men wouldn’t be accompanying the Starks in the fight against the Dead.

A knock at the door drew Sansa’s attention away from the scroll. She ushered them in, and when the door opened, she looked over, half expecting it to be Lord Royce insisting that he hear the news. It wasn’t, however. Instead, it was her brother, Jon, looking just as weary as she did.

Before Jon could start talking on whatever matter brought him to her solar, Sansa looked over to her brother and stared to get his attention. It worked, as Jon stopped in front of her large, oak desk, and awaited to hear what she had to say.

‘Lord Glover wishes us good fortune, but he’s staying it Deepwood Motte with his men.’ The scroll curled back on her fingers as Sansa placed it on her desk, and she rested her wrist on the edge. It was upsetting and frustrating in many ways, but the worse thing to do was start an argument with her brother.

Jon threw down his gloves in annoyance, and sighed. ‘House Glover will stand behind House Stark as we have for a thousand years. Isn’t that what he said?’

As Jon was speaking, Sansa couldn’t help but roll her eyes and shake her head. An argument was to be avoided if she could help it, but sense had to be driven into Jon one way or another.

‘I will stand behind Jon Snow, he said,’ Sansa stood up, the chair legs scraped against the flagstone in her exasperation, and she turned to face Jon, ‘the King in the North.’

‘I told you we needed allies.’

Jon had barely finished his sentence before Sansa bit back. ‘You didn’t tell me you were going to abandon your crown.’ Sansa’s back was facing her brother, as she had walked over to the end table, stocked high with ancient books and scrolls, seemingly indifferent to Jon’s excuses.

‘I never wanted a crown.’ Jon’s voice became louder to Sansa as he cleared the space between them, created by Sansa herself. ‘All I wanted was to protect the North. I brought two armies home with me, two dragons.’

‘And a Targaryen queen.’

Jon let out a small huff of breath as his sister turned to face him. ‘Do you think we can beat the Army of the Dead without her? I fought them, Sansa. Twice. You want to worry about who holds what title, I’m telling you it doesn’t matter. Without her, we don’t stand a chance.’

Jon had to raise his voice a little, when he saw that Sansa was opening her mouth to interrupt him, it spurred him on to say his piece, to repeat what he had been preaching for so long. It hurt him somewhat to be so harsh with his sister, but with the impending doom of the Dead, there was no pussyfooting around what mattered then and there.

With his voice much lower, a pleading tone, Jon asked, ‘Do you have any faith in me at all?’

Sansa’s eyes softened, something Jon was warmed to see. ‘You know I do.’ She replied.

Encouraged by Sansa’s admission, Jon took a few steps forward, ones he knew were safe with Sansa. Again, with his low tone, Jon spoke.

‘She’ll be a good Queen. For all of us. She’s not her father.’ Jon knew that the blood that coursed through Daenerys’ veins caused Sansa much stress, to have a Targaryen in Winterfell wasn’t a common occurrence, Sansa knew it. But Jon knew it as well, and the fact that it was uncommon made him think that it was special, that’s why he defended her so often to those who doubted.

Sansa’s eyes lowered, clearly thinking and choosing her next words. Sansa would’ve never said anything to harm her brother, it was clear that feeling ran deeper than loyalty in his eyes, and would’ve never forgiven herself if she hurt Jon.

‘No, she means more to us than they ever did. Especially now, with the Dead.’ Sansa said. In a quick thought, Sansa had reminded herself of Brienne; she had chosen her words as carefully as possible, causing no offence to anyone mentioned. It had been the right thing to say, but perhaps not the most honest.

Jon nodded his head once, knowing not to ask for more from Sansa, but once again, his conscious took over his mouth. ‘I know you’ll never see eye to eye on things, most thing, but she’ll take her part in the battle, like everyone else. I just want people to-’

‘I know, Jon.’ Sansa brought a hand forward to place on Jon’s upper arm, silencing his thoughts. She saw him swallow thickly, somewhat glad that he had been stopped, and he quirked the corner of his lips, more out of sudden awkwardness than anything.

With nothing more to say to one another, and Jon seemingly forgetting the reason he had gone to Sansa’s chambers, she was left alone. The bang of the door being shut was a distant echo, the crackling of fire filled the room and Sansa’s mind, and she stared off into the distance. It wasn’t yet dinner time, but Sansa began to feel hungry, and wondered what fair they’d be served that night.

The thoughts of food did nothing but spur on pains in Sansa’s stomach, but she refused to think about the Queen and her brother again. There was more to find out, so much more than they were giving away to herself and the banner men, and Sansa wondered if Jon would be able to keep his head in the face of the battle. Not just the battle, but what came afterwards, if there was an afterwards.

\-----

To find peace in Winterfell was a hard task for Sansa. In every building, in the bailey and courtyard and outside every gate there were people working harder than ever. There were sounds of wagons crunching the snow, Dragonglass being forged, spikes being chopped from wood, children crying, men shouting and the two dragons overhead. Even when Sansa was in her solar, Lord Royce was by her side and helping her with plans that needed seeing to. The nights were taken up with her dreamless sleep, a rare occurrence that Sansa wasn’t going to wish away, so she had to find a new place to find a sense of tranquillity.

The Godswoods were for when she felt desperate, they were a true peace in Sansa’s mind, and not a place to visit too often. With the new appointment of Sandor as combat trainer, Sansa had wanted to see his progress herself, as Brienne had only given her minute pieces of information.

‘He is doing well, My Lady. He curses at them more than I think is necessary, but we are seeing results, which can’t be overlooked.’

Sansa remembered how she had hide her smile at the thought of Sandor and the state of his mouth. He had never been one to shy away from using dirty language, and to think that he still did eased Sansa’s mind somewhat. In the end, he was the same old Sandor, with some habits holding onto his character more than others.

On the daily tour around the keep, Sansa urged Lord Royce to go back inside and continue with the scroll work, for she had other matters to attend. Lord Royce had been harder to convince that time, so Sansa had to improvise.

‘I am going to see my sworn shield, I want to know how she is fairing, and find her welfare of upmost importance to me. I won’t be long, Lord Royce.’

Obediently, Lord Royce took his leave and left her company, so Sansa was left to her own devices. Sansa knew that sooner rather than later, Lord Royce would’ve started refusing her lone jaunts around the keep, even with two guards accompanying her. It wasn't because she was a woman unchaperoned, but due to the amount of work that needed to be done. Sansa could see it, she foresaw that day as being her last to do what she wanted, so decided to make it count.

With her guards following, Sansa paced out to the North Gate. She daren’t make eye contact with anyone, either a Lord, squire, knight or smallfolk, she didn’t want there to be less time spent watching Sandor.

Sansa could hear Sandor before she saw him, his shouts in commanding his men were unmatched to Brienne’s voice. Sansa walked through the open gates and focused her eyes on the tallest man in the group of people, and despite his raging words, Sandor seemed collected with himself as he guided a path through different pairs of sparring partners.

Stood to one side, Sansa didn’t look to Brienne to grab her attention, but she was sure that longing stares at Sandor wouldn’t have made him approach her. Sansa felt Brienne’s gaze on her a few times, and each time she knew that her neck was going redder, heat patches blooming from her guilty, indulgent conscious.

To will away Brienne’s notice, Sansa refused eye contact with her. Instead, Sansa looked upon the command of men that Sandor was in charge of, then to Sandor himself. His black outfit stood out from the white background, his tall stature was imposing to those around him, but it thrilled Sansa in the same capacity. To see her tall man, saviour in the Bread Riots, and figure of imagination when she was alone at night, gave Sansa a sense of peace. She thought that she might’ve found it with him, to gaze upon his form as he ordered men in a skill he was expert in, and she had been right.

A swell of pride puffed Sansa’s chest out, and she felt a jolt within her. With her dress and heavy cloak hiding her body, Sansa brought her thighs together, ever so slyly. Even with the distance between them, Sansa knew and recognised the gaze Sandor gave her, it made her inside feel alight. Sansa yearned for Sandor, and she felt she had to do something.

‘My Lady, is everything well?’

Brienne’s appearance to Sansa’s side made her swallow suddenly, having been caught in a daze. There was no way to hide her slight cough, but Brienne wasn’t to notice or say anything with so many people around them.

‘Yes, Brienne.’ Sansa had a trick of knowing what to say when put on the spot, learning from Brienne herself in speaking plainly and without opinion. ‘I’ve come to see how the training is fairing, amongst my other duties.’

Sansa held her gaze to Brienne, her height made Sansa’s eyes strain against the brightness of the white sky, but she saw how Brienne’s eyes faltered a little. They flicked down to Sansa’s exposed neck, one that Sansa knew was blotched red. With defiance and conviction that Brienne wouldn’t say anything untoward, Sansa held her gaze to Brienne, and their eyes met once again.

‘It’s going well, my Lady.’ Brienne said plainly, and Sansa released a tight breath in her chest. ‘As you can see, there are many more men learning, and to a moderate success.’ Brienne turned to face the band of men, taking position to Sansa’s side.

‘Clegane is doing well, men are responding to him like they are me, and I feel we’ll be better protected when the time comes.’

Brienne was filling the gap of silence, but she hadn’t noticed that Sansa had gone back to gazing upon Sandor. With Brienne not able to see her eye line, Sansa thought it had been safe to do so, and she noticed that Sandor hadn’t missed the presence of Brienne next to her. Sansa hoped that it would encourage him to come to her, to not hide with hard work and station being an excuse.

‘Is everything to your liking, my Lady?’

Sansa jolted once more, and silently wondered if Brienne understood the hidden meaning of her question. Despite the thought, Sansa kept her face plain and answer plainer.

‘I’m not a seasoned fighter like you Brienne, I can only see that things are well, but trust you in making sure that it’s true.’

Brienne cleared her throat quickly and shifted from one foot to the other, something that didn’t pass Sansa by. It was another compliment, willingly given by herself, and it had caused the right reaction.

‘Right, my Lady, with your permission, I’ll take my leave and return to commanding the men.’

It endeared Sansa that Brienne would feel the need to seem more uptight than usual, that the mere thought of a compliment made her tense and reserved, but that wouldn’t stop her from giving them. Sansa granted Brienne the permission she needed, and watched with a small smile as her sworn shield walked back to the pairs of fighters. A second hadn’t passed since Brienne started commanding her men when Sansa flicked her eyes back over to Sandor, trying to mask his interest in herself and Brienne’s conversation. He wouldn’t have been able to hear anything, not with the distance between them, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t interested.

When Sansa knew that her time had overrun, and fearing that Lord Royce had sent men to find her, she reluctantly took her leave. That hadn’t been without looking upon Sandor one last time, and he had the gall to look back at her. Sansa wished it in her mind that she’d see him soon, in a more intimate place than outside the north gate of the keep. As she tore her gaze from him, Sansa could only hope an instance would occur.

Lord Royce had only pursed his lips in annoyance at Sansa’s late arrival to the library, but Sansa ignored it. When the time came, Sansa worked hard, even with the many distractions around them, and Lord Royce couldn’t fault her for her work ethic.

After a few meetings, Sansa had collapsed and slouched into the chair in front of her dressing table. Knowing that Sansa felt tired, Caroline had kept her conversation short that evening. Sansa willed herself to be present at dinner that night, even after being told by Jon that it wouldn’t have been seen as rebellious to eat her food in her room every once in a while. It wasn’t out of proving a point to anyone that Sansa forced herself to be in the Great Hall every night, it was from feeling a small sense of home in seeing it full with northern banner men, reminding herself of a time when her father was Lord of the keep. Not knowing how long Winterfell was to stand made Sansa get dressed and walk to the Great Hall, and to do so every evening without fail.

That night was no different, and Sansa noticed that the Queen had decided against sitting amongst the northerners for another night. It neither pleased nor bothered Sansa at her absence, she knew that developing petty opinions about the Queen would not help the cause.

Dinner went by fast, and like usual, Sandor was in his familiar corner. It was either something in the air, or something within Sansa herself, but she felt that the night wasn’t over for the both of them, and when she saw him depart from the room slowly after the meal had been finished, she found herself standing up from her seat.

Sansa was one of the first to leave, and had insisted in walking back to her chambers on her own. The guards did as they were told, and stood back to attention, but when Sansa started walking away, she found herself looking over her shoulder to check if they were obeying her orders.

With no one following her, no rush to be on her own and out of the presence of Stark guards, Sansa slowed her feet. Sandor had gotten up to leave, but it was then that Sansa realised that he probably wasn’t staying in Great Keep where her chambers were, but perhaps the Guest House. Walking along the silent hallway, with nothing but the blazing torches lighting her way, Sansa felt defeated. Her feet had taken her a different way than the one to her chambers, and Sansa felt redundant in doing so.

Sansa kept her eyes to the floor, and brought a hand out to the wall. With her fingertips, she brushed along the wall gently, feeling the coarse stone against her skin, an idle activity to perform whilst taking slow steps.

‘My Lady.’

Sansa gasped at the sudden sound, bringing her extended hand close to her body in slight retreat. Her lowered eyes hadn’t picked up on the long shadow flickering against the stone floor, and when Sansa raised her head, the shadow appeared from a dark corner.

In the shock of the moment, Sansa hadn’t realised that they had been Sandor’s words. Sansa wasn’t even sure if any words had been spoken in the first place, finding her gaze with Sandor had brought everything around her to a halt, even the echo of the words he had emitted.

All that moved were the flames, Sansa felt herself gawping madly up at Sandor, having found him so easily after thinking of defeat. Sandor hadn’t been aware that he was being sought out by Sansa herself, and didn’t know what to think of her standing so quiet, mouth slightly hung open from the sight of him.

‘My Lady.’ Sandor announced his leave, thinking that he had made a mistake, but was stopped by a hand reaching for his arm.

‘Please, wait.’ Sansa spoke softly, but Sandor felt his body tense at the sound of it. They stood so openly in the corridor, anyone couldn’t come across them, Sandor had a perfect view of the length of the stone passageway, but he didn’t move from Sansa’s grip.

‘I have so much to say. I feel that _we_ have so much to say. To one another.’ Sansa admitted. From looking down the corridor, Sandor turned his head to gaze down at her, the burnt side of his face was covered by his hair, but it hadn’t been missed in the firelight.

Sandor only nodded, not a curt nod, but one that made his eyes trail from Sansa’s, because he knew there was truth behind her words.

‘Come to my chambers tonight, it will remain unlocked.’ Sansa had put pressure on Sandor’s arm, making sure that he didn’t miss her instructions. There was no time to see his reaction, however, as sounds of clinking armour were heard, and they had to flee. Even with Sansa beginning to retreat, she kept her hand on Sandor until the last second.


	9. Sansa | The Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 8x01 reunion piece. Sandor has made it to Winterfell to continue the fight against the Whitewalkers. Sansa is Lady of Winterfell, but when she sees a figure from her past, things become more complicated.

There was no judging what the time was as Sansa waited in her chambers, all she could do to keep herself awake was pace the cold flagstone. She kept her feet bare, thinking that the chill keeping her feet cold would also keep her mind awake. It was usual for Sansa to fall asleep as soon as she returned from dinner, but there was anticipation keeping her awake.

Sansa’s heart was pounding, not only was she awaiting the arrival of Sandor, but feared that the unlocked door was to cause trouble for her. In remembering the many nights before, there hadn’t been a time in which she had been called upon after announcing she was retiring to her chambers, but that night, of all nights, Sansa wondered if she was safe in her privacy. There was no part of Sansa that wanted to lock the door, however, not with what the night had promised.

The biting pain Sansa soon felt in her feet kept her from pacing the floor, she put her slippers on before she started losing toes. The funny feeling growing in Sansa’s body was no longer being eased by the monotonous pacing of her chambers, and she soon feared that someone would hear the small tap of her slippers against the stone. To calm herself, as Sansa was keen for anything that settled the whirling motion in her lower stomach, she walked to her window.

It was, strangely, another clear night. Sansa mused to herself that the clear, inky sky was a contrast to her fraught and emotional state, like she had taken all the wild weather into her body to harbour it for herself. And for Sandor, if he ever showed. The cold that had been spiking her feet soon washed over her features, she felt the chill pull at her hair, tucked nonplussed at the nape of her neck. It felt soothing to have such a wintry awakening, the northern air would bide her sleepiness all night if Sansa willed it to.

With her fingertips, Sansa felt the settled powder of snow on the stone, so fresh and new, it melted against the rosy tips of her fingers. Sansa turned her hand to see the wetness upon it, she wasn’t bothered by the icy droplets running down her palm to catch on her clothed wrist. In the time that Sansa had managed to elude all that was around her, she had escape the notice of her door opening. It had been performed so quietly, the small metal bar was hardly given time to scrape like it usually did, and a figure entered the chambers, just like Sansa had hoped for.

The creaking of the widening door was what pulled Sansa from her daydream, she whipped her head around and focused her gaze on who had entered. A sudden fear had crossed her mind, thinking it was an intruder, or a Stark guard, or even Brienne, but through the candlelight, Sansa caught eyes with Sandor. Her heart leaped into her throat, thrilled at the idea of him obeying her. The fresh snow at the window was forgotten about, yet freezing drops of water fell from Sansa’s fingertips as she walked to close the space between them both.

Even though Sandor had been strictly welcome within Sansa’s chambers, he daren’t enter further than a step away from the closed door. It had been a place he thought he’d never see, and with Sansa in her night robes, the façade of Lady of Winterfell was no longer shielding her features, it was the most natural Sandor had seen her. Even if the rest of the night just consisted of Sandor savouring that memory of Sansa, he would’ve been a man pleased to the highest degree, as he was sure that only he, from that moment, had seen Sansa in the most contented state.

Sandor couldn’t ignore Sansa’s advancing figure, he desperately wanted to keep her gaze, but he didn’t have the safety of it like the Great Hall granted him. Sansa came within a step of Sandor’s body, within the cool air of the north, he could feel the presence of her with the warmth she emitted, and with an unintended thought, he wanted to taste how warm she felt. To shake those thoughts from his mind, Sandor pierced his fingernails into his palms.

‘You came.’

The ethereal presence of Sansa in her night robes continued, the sweet lilt of her tongue made Sandor clench his fists expectantly. He had to do all he could to will himself still and composed, the last thing Sandor wanted to do was to scare his little bird.

‘Aye, my Lady.’

Sandor kept his voice steady, the only thing that managed to remain so, as the beat of his heart increased powerfully in his chest. Speaking aloud had reminded him of what choice he had made, it was possible that his head wouldn’t meet his neck again if they were found out. Yet, there could’ve been nothing, not even dragon fire, that would’ve torn him out of Sansa’s chambers.

‘Please, call me …’ Sansa paused, her gaze lowered to a spot on Sandor’s shirt, a place where she could think through her next thought.

‘Little Bird.’

Sansa hadn’t lifted her eyes to meet Sandor’s, and Sandor was glad she remained elusive for that moment. His eyes had widened, scarily so. The nickname, born out of jest but treasured in memory, and Sansa was the one to utter its existence first.

When Sansa did meet Sandor’s gaze, it was done out of fear for him. In the quiet room, Sansa had quickly picked up on the rise and fall of Sandor’s chest, when she had looked to his body, she had seen the movement under his leather tunic, but it had ceased. Sandor had calmed his shock for the moment, and Sansa noticed that the breathing had returned to his chest.

‘Come into the room.’

It was another order, one that Sandor obeyed without insolence. With increased space from the door, Sansa felt bolder.

‘Will you call me it?’

Seconds lapsed without a word, Sansa tried to understand the thoughts behind the stormy, grey eyes, but couldn’t have possible prepared herself to hear what came out of his lips.

‘Little Bird.’

The expression of her nickname ended with a small choking sound, one that Sansa reeled from. To ease the torment it seemed to be bringing him, Sansa refused to keep herself apart from Sandor a moment longer.

As Sansa had done before, she fixated her thoughts to Sandor’s breathing, the rise and fall below his leather tunic fascinated her. She took a step, there was a small pat of her slippers touching the stone, so close to Sandor’s own feet, and without regret, Sansa rested her head on Sandor's chest. It was near his heart, for she could hear the beating it produced, the sound of it lulled her.

Sandor felt rooted to the spot. His hands, previously balled into fists, were outstretched to the point of aching, he didn’t know where to place them. The little bird had astounded him, in all his wildest dreams, he could never have imagined such a sweet but agonising feeling. With his hands stilled in their place, Sandor lowered his head, to gaze upon the silky tresses of Sansa’s red hair, he thought he could smell the pleasant soaps she had washed it with.

Without needing to think, Sandor brought a hand up, he daren’t stare at it in case he saw it shaking, and placed it gently, so tenderly, on Sansa’s hair. Sandor stilled when Sansa shifted slightly, fearing he had done wrong, but felt confidence bloom within his body when he heard a soft mewling from her lips. Strands of her beautiful hair slipped between his fingers, a contrast of beauty and strength, and Sandor was sure the beating of his heart increased tenfold.

‘I know I said we would have things to say with one another.’ Sansa’s words felt like honey, she couldn’t have felt more contented, they fell so easily from her lips. ‘But I’d like to not ruin this.’

The encouragement from Sansa meant his free hand stayed empty no longer. It was place on her clothed back, fingers spanning to feel as much heat as possible, Sandor swore Sansa must’ve been on fire.

‘We don’t have much time left, Little Bird.’ Sandor finally found his voice, it was steadier than first thought. ‘We don’t need to waste it regretting the past.’

It was then that Sansa blessed Sandor in her gaze, their bodies tight against one another, and emotions swimming in Sansa’s blue eyes. Sandor knew he’d do anything to relinquish the sudden thought she had, for he knew it was a troubled one.

‘When the time comes,’ Sansa began, but faltered as her fears took over. Yet, the Lady of Winterfell, even in the most compromising of positions, never left a sentence unfinished.

‘When the time comes, will you look after me?’

A wash of emotions flowed through Sandor’s body, reaching the tips of his fingers, and he felt himself increase the grip on Sansa’s back. Without needing to think through his thoughts, he spoke with great conviction.

‘I will protect you, Little Bird, better than I did in that … place.’

Sandor daren’t utter the name, in fear of destroying the peace they had found themselves in. The mention of the previous time they had met didn’t disturb Sansa, Sandor could see her face remain soft and pleasant, but another thought had crossed her mind, one that Sandor couldn’t have predicted.

‘The last time you were in my chambers, you left with a kiss, will you do the same tonight?’

The question seemed blasé, Sansa hadn’t thought it worse than asking any other type of question, but Sandor was confused.

‘I did what?’ No matter the bewilderment, Sandor’s tone matched Sansa’s, soft, but gravelly, like the shock had warped his throat.

‘You kissed me …’

Sansa had been so sure of her memories. The Battle of the Blackwater had been a hazy memory, with aspects glad to be forgotten, but the one thing Sansa willed herself to remember, the kiss, had been too unbelievable to forget. Sandor had kissed her that night, she was sure of it. However, as Sansa looked up to Sandor’s shadowed face, a small seed of doubt set in, as he looked confused at the notion of having kissed her before.

‘I would’ve left you with more than a kiss that night.’

The gaze that was previously held broke, Sandor looked off to the flagstone floor rather than meeting Sansa’s flickering eyes as he remembered. He had been crazy with blood lust in Sansa’s room, demanding a song from her sweet lips, but in the wine-fuelled rage, he did remember leaving. Sandor had left without a kiss, and wondered how the little bird could’ve imagined such an act between them.

‘How will you leave me tonight?’

The notion knocked Sandor out of his own thoughts, his eyes raced to meet Sansa’s, yet she had given him no time. As soon as she had spoken her words, Sansa peeled her body away from Sandor’s, at the behest of the wildness within her body. No words were spoken, neither of them could muster a coherent thought.

When Sansa had moved away, the hand that had laid delicately against Sansa’s back remained rigid in the air, as if it needed permission to move. Sansa had seen it in the corner of her eye, and thought to not let the chance leave her.

Sansa brought her own hands to meet Sandor’s, she felt the coarseness of the skin, the power it held, it fascinated Sansa. Instead of looking to Sandor’s eyes to gauge his reaction, she kept her gaze solely on his hand, then brought it close to her. There was no man alive who would’ve stopped her, not even the man attached to the hand she was cradling.

At first, Sansa had closed her eyes, guiding the fingertips with her own, and brought then to her lips. Like she had felt with her hands, the harsh skin of Sandor’s fingertips brushed against Sandor’s soft lip, a contrast that sent a shock through her body, where it reached her core. It was a simple feeling, but Sansa knowing whose fingers touched her lips caused the familiar reaction inside her, she was prepared to beg for more.

‘Little Bird.’

Sandor groaned without pretence, it caused Sansa’s eyes to open to witness his reaction. What she saw flooded her body with pleasure, causing her lips to slacken. Sandor was stood tall, a man filled with lust, barely holding himself together. As Sansa’s lips had slackened, the tip of Sandor’s finger edged nearer her open mouth, and she dared herself.

Sansa steeled her eyes on Sandor’s, and brought the tip of his finger to her lips. She didn’t kiss it like she had previously done, but let her tongue lick the tip. Not a second later, Sansa brought her lips down around it, sucking with a small moan at the back of her throat. She had pretended it was something else, the size of Sandor’s fingers were enough to mimic it completely, and another wave of pleasure spread through her lower body.

With a ridiculous sound, Sansa released the finger from her mouth, all the while keeping her eyes on Sandor, and smiled softly at him.

‘Leave me with more than a kiss, Sandor.’

Sandor needed no more encouragement. He took his free hand and poised it, ready to move.

‘Little Bird. Tonight, I will kiss you here,’ Sandor brought a thumb to swipe against her lower lip, he could feel the wetness, ‘and here.’

From Sansa’s lips, his hand travelled the length of her body, then cupped her between her thighs. A gasped ripped from Sansa’s mouth, but it was quashed with Sandor placing his lips against her own.


End file.
